“Gog has sent Oracle Defenders and Enforcers,” Auroch said. “I’d wager he’s foreseen this expedition and plans our destruction.”
“We have Seraphs,” Adah said groggily, from her mat.
“You have less than on the Tiras,” the ex-pirate said. “Those Seraphs are also spread among more people.”
A trumpet blew an hour later. Sailors shouted alarm. Adah flung aside her blanket, fumbling to string her bow.
Tree-hollowed canoes glided from the forested shore, as rowers dug their paddles like madmen. They shot past the guardian biremes and toward coastal traders in the center of the anchored flotilla. The attackers revealed hidden torches, as others heaved bloated oilskins into the nearest trader. Spinning torches followed. Adah licked her lips, fitted an arrow to the string, hoping the dugouts strayed closer to her. The attacked trader burst into flames, individual tongues of fire licking higher than the mast. Burning sailors screamed, many leaping into the sea. Spears flew from the prowling dugouts. Sailors and Elonite warriors drowned or choked on their blood. A half-naked Nar Naccara appeared on the deck of his flagship and started roaring orders. Arrows twanged. Nebo splashed into the sea. Still, a handful of dugouts escaped to shore, their occupants racing into the forest.
In the morning, as they viewed the burnt shell, Auroch said, “That was Gog’s work.”
“The evil ones are sly,” Prince Ishmael said. With three fingers, he touched the blade of his dagger. “Events will change once we’re on land, this I assure you.”
The prince’s words proved prophetic. A swift day’s journey brought them to a sandy headland pre-chosen by Nar Naccara. His mariners boarded fishing boats, impounding the vessels so no one could report about their unloading. It took the rest of the day to cart the supplies ashore, wrestle the handful of chariots, and lift and lower horses and mules by the single crane.
The Nebo struck that night, screaming their war cries from leafy hiding. Grisly battle-trophies, scalps, dangled from their belts and war-paint streaked their faces. Prince Ishmael and his Shurites closed the trap, and methodically slaughtered the surprised cannibals. The prince’s warriors carried small bucklers, and wielded their long knives move effectively than swords in the tight confines of forest fighting. It took Auroch, however, with a fierce display of swordsmanship to defeat Gog’s Enforcer who led the natives.
“Now there’s no doubt,” Auroch said, after wiping his sword on the Enforcer’s massive corpse. “Gog knew we would land here. His minions will stalk us all the way to Arkite Land.”
Prince Ishmael grinned in the moonlight. A jagged line of blood was streaked across his forehead. It was his war-paint and came from his enemies. Beside him was the severed head of the chief Nebo, stuck to a Nebo spear driven into the ground. The Shurites were vicious warriors, practicing a darker form of combat than Lord Uriah’s Elonites. “It’s lucky for you that I and my men are here.”
In the morning, Nar Naccara loudly bemoaned Lord Uriah’s decision.
“You must use your talents where they’re most needed,” Lord Uriah told the Admiral. “Soon, Gog and his captains will sail west. When they do, your presence will be needed with the League fleets.”
“True,” Nar Naccara said. “I had hoped to glimpse fabled Eden.”
Lord Uriah clasped Nar Naccara’s arm. “You’ve greatly aided us, Admiral. Thank you.”
“My prayers go with you, Patriarch Uriah. You’ll need them, I fear.” The Admiral waded the few needed feet and climbed into a longboat, his men briskly taking him to the waiting biremes.
Soon thereafter, Prince Ishmael and his mountain warriors trekked inland as scouts. They fanned into the green growth and murk in groups of twos or threes, seemingly at home in the forest. They searched for ambushes and speared game for the evening pot as they blazed the trail.
The Elonites of Lord Mikloth marched next, together with individual warriors who Lord Uriah had persuaded to join. Lord Mikloth, Lord Uriah and Adah each rode a chariot, along with several other highly ranked Elonites. It was slow going, as wheels crushed old brittle leaves or clumped over exposed roots or cracked fallen branches covered in fungus. Too often, the sides of the cart scraped against a tree, as they negotiated thick growth.
The mules and their handlers struggled behind. The bulk of the expedition’s supplies rested on the stubborn beasts. Lastly, over a trail made more explicit by the passage of many feet, came the League mariners, led by Commander Himilco. The green maze of the increasingly thick forest, the lack of an open breeze and the seldom seen sun soon drove the mariners to despair.
Lord Uriah constantly urged them faster. “Speed is our best armor,” he said. “Once the Nebo gather, then our troubles begin.”
“I disagree,” Auroch said. He marched behind the chariot, his stride a match for the horses. “With his ocular sight, Gog has foreseen our actions. He will ambush us at pre-selected sites. We must practice caution and keep every warrior fit. Excessive speed could well be our greatest enemy.”
Despite his hatred of pirates, Himilco sided with a fellow seaman. Almost all the mariners limped, their feet blistered, and their morale made low by these strange conditions. Many were already sick with fever. Several sailors had bloated red faces, their tongues swollen. They gasped, as if having run a long race, and drained every canteen given them.
“I hate the forest,” Lord Mikloth said from his chariot. Above, magpies screeched at him, stepping behind a branch whenever the noble lifted a javelin. He rubbed his fist against his stubbly check, the javelin clenched in it. “These trees press in all around, leaving a man blind. The sooner we leave them, the better.”
During the following days, the oaks and other trees thickened. The forest choked the spirit of all but the Shurites. Now, Elonites advanced before each chariot, using axes to hack a path, or chopping roots, so the wheels could roll.
“Abandon those,” Himilco said at one stop. He sat on an old fallen tree. Then he jumped up, tearing off his shirt and was picking ants from his red skin. Donning his sweat-stained shirt afterward, pointing at the sack that held his armor, he said, “My men are grumbling, and say that everyone should walk. The chariots only slow us down, and it’s prolonging our stay in this miserable jungle.”
Surprisingly, Prince Ishmael defended Lord Uriah. “You speak from ignorance,” the prince said. Despite the heat, the Shurites still wore their furs and thick leathers. “The chariots are terrible weapons in the open.” His eyes glittered. “But for chariots, Shur would have long ago made slaves of the Elonites.”
Lord Mikloth grasped the hilt of his longsword and shot to his feet. “We don’t need chariots to sweep away vermin like you!”
Prince Ishmael sneered.
“Dog—”
“Hold!” said Lord Uriah.
Lord Mikloth had his longsword half drawn, but halted.
Adah retrieved her lyre from the chariot and sang a song about three brothers who quarreled about their chores. One cut grass, the other milked the cows, while the third raised the dogs that kept the wolves at bay. Each haughtily said his chore was the most important. They became so angry against each other that no grass was cut, no cows milked or dogs taken care of. In the end, the three brothers died because they were too weak from starvation to fight off the prowling wolves, who had moved in for the kill.
“I fail to grasp your point,” Lord Mikloth said, mopping his neck.
Adah laughed as she wrapped her lyre with oiled cloth. “My point is that your argument is forgotten. Please, let it remain so.”
It took a moment, but Prince Ishmael laughed as well. He winked at her, motioned to his warriors and headed into the trees.
The proceeding days worsened. The oaks changed to cypress, and the loamy soil to damp moss and mire. Mosquitoes thickened, and the air grew fetid. The fevers of the mariners grew worse, while Elonites grew pale with fatigue. The sturdy Shurites, however, merely shrugged, and at times lent the muleteers a hand. Never would they help the charioteers,
however. Three mariners died from fever. At last, Lord Uriah called a halt to give everyone a rest.
Under a towering tree, away from a line of black ants, some of which carried leaves in their jaws, Adah perched on a log next to Lord Uriah.
She pulled her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “We cannot afford this delay.”
“Dead men don’t fight,” Lord Uriah said. “If the Nebo find us like this, sick and dispirited...” He sliced a finger across his throat.
The Nebo found them a day later. A Shurite with his intestines wrapped around an oak tree was the first sign. From then on, a fierce struggle took place. Planted stakes, rope traps and poison darts plagued the expedition. In turn, the Shurite-baited ambushes produced carefully skinned Nebo corpses. Atrocity piled upon atrocity.
Lord Uriah bemoaned each lost warrior. He kept a careful tally. Three more mariners died from fever. Five ambushed Shurites were buried. Three men failed to show up. “We cannot stand such whittling,” Uriah told Adah.
Lord Uriah and Adah soon started scouting themselves, at her suggestion. Her terrible experiences of Gibborim in jungle-thick Poseidonis had given her uncanny tracking skills. And no one could match five-hundred-year-old Uriah in the tricks of scouting.
The Patriarch called a meeting the next day beside a scummy pond of water. It was full of frogs, the green creatures croaking or flicking their sticky pink tongues at bugs.
“The Nebo have gathered in strength,” Adah said. She crouched, eyeing a big frog that eyed her. She knew some natives used the skin of poison frogs to coat their arrows. The frog’s throat bloated to an immense size, as it produced a mighty sound. Then it leaped from its rock before Adah could decide whether to catch the amphibian.
“Have they gathered in army strength?” asked Prince Ishmael.
Adah frowned, as she laid a hand on her arrow case. It was lighter by many shafts.
Lord Uriah spoke up. “Nebo don’t think like that. They mean to fell trees, block our advance and weary us. Then, when we’re trapped, forced against their log palisades, they’ll stand and fight.”
“What do you suggest?” asked the prince.
Lord Uriah grinned tightly, giving him a nefarious cast, and for once, looking like he was five hundred years old. That meant five hundred years of dirty, fighting trickery. “Commander Himilco, you must go to your officers and sub-leaders. Gather their gold-inlaid swords. I’ll gather jeweled daggers from Elonite nobles. These will all be piled on the weakest mules. You, prince, must insure that your men lose those mules to the Nebo. Then, Prince Ishmael with his Shurites, me with half the Elonites, and a score of the healthiest mariners, will ambush the Nebo. We will destroy them as they bicker over the spoils.”
The plan worked. Adah was sickened by the countless Nebo corpses, and was amazed that their forest-spawned enemies had been so numerous.
A week later, they exited the forests and entered the foothills of Arkite Land. It was a place with stony soil and deep gullies. Far beyond the foothills, towered majestic, snowcapped mountains. They rose like a spine, cutting the Suttung Sea region from Glorious Ir, Larak and tall-walled Caphtor of the plains. According to Joash’s vision of Irad the Arkite, somewhere in those mountains, was the Garden of Eden. To find Eden, or get close to it, they needed to find the Snow Leopard Country. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any maps of Arkite Land, if indeed anyone in the world had such maps. This was a wild, untamed region.
“We’re being watched,” Prince Ishmael reported early the next morning by the campfire.
“Yes,” Lord Uriah said. He warmed his hands over the crackling flames and drank tea with Adah.
Prince Ishmael lifted an eyebrow.
Adah raised a new arrow, bit the thread, knotted it, and then tugged the fletching. “We been waiting for this,” she explained.
“Would you care to let me in on your secret?”
“No secret,” Lord Uriah said. “We need someone to guide us to Snow Leopard Country.”
“Ah,” Prince Ishmael said, nodding. He beckoned to his best trackers, left camp with them, and returned an hour later.
Two thin old men, wearing bear-fur loincloths, stone daggers sheathed at their sides and thick sandals on their feet, frowned severely as the prince urged them to Lord Uriah’s campfire.
“Only this one speaks our language,” Prince Ishmael said, indicating the oldest native who had thinning gray hair and only a few yellow teeth left in his mouth. At his side was a quiver topped with bear-fur and filled with arrows fletched with hawk feathers. His bow was in the hands of one of the Shurite trackers.
“He’s a sly one,” the prince said. “He wounded one of my men, and almost slipped away. He only came back because we captured the other one.”
The old Arkite had been carefully following Prince Ishmael’s words. Now he swore, and told Lord Uriah, “Begin your tortures now, Nephilim-spawn. I grow weary of your tracker’s prattle.”
“Why do you call us Nephilim-spawn?” Adah asked.
The old Arkite frowned at her. “You have dark skin,” he said. “Why is that?”
“I’m from Poseidonis,” Adah explained.
The old Arkite shook his head.
“You still haven’t answered our question,” Adah said.
“Lowlander Nebo, led by fiends, destroyed our village,” the old Arkite said sullenly. “Now, you march in their wake. Of course you’re Nephilim-spawn.”
“Not true at all,” Lord Uriah said. “We serve Elohim, and we wish to stop the Nephilim.”
The old Arkite snorted rudely.
Lord Uriah sipped his tea, and then nodded to Adah. She retrieved her lyre from a chariot. It rested in a leather bag wadded with soft material. She carefully drew off each wrapping and experimentally plucked each string. Nodding, satisfied, she began to sing of their adventures. When she was done, the old Arkite’s face had hardened. He spoke rapidly to his companion. His companion said only two words, and then fell silent again.
The old Arkite suddenly grasped Adah’s hand, and pressed it against his lips. “I, Beron, thank you,” he whispered. “We always wondered what happened to Irad.”
Adah’s stomach grew hollow. “You knew Irad of the Snow Leopard Tribe?”
Beron laughed. “Everyone of Arkite Land knows about Irad. He went into the Forbidden Territory and spoke with an Old One. Irad also foretold the coming of the fiends. He was a prophet. Aye, I too serve He Who Is Most High. Almost all Arkites do, whether of the Cave Bear Tribe, the distant Snow Leopard Tribe or even if they’re Orn Men. I’ve heard it said that Irad finally journeyed into the lowlands. He planned to tell city dwellers about the grim fate that was rushing toward them.”
Beron shook his head. “Ah, brave Irad. I listened to his tale over two years ago. Now, the great prophet is dead. Woe to Arkite Land.”
“What did your friend say a few moments ago?” Lord Uriah asked softly.
“You mean the shaman?”
Lord Uriah nodded.
Beron grinned. “He told me: ‘Help them’.”
“You will guide us to the Forbidden Territory?” Lord Uriah asked.
“It lies near Snow Leopard Country,” Beron warned. “And Snow Leopard Country is almost on the other side of Arkite Land as we now stand.”
Lord Uriah could hardly contain his excitement. They had found guides.
“It is a hard march, and will take us into the hardest terrain Arkite Land has,” Beron said.
“We are here to stop the evil ones,” Lord Uriah said.
Beron nodded. “Yes, I will take you. When are you ready?”
“Right now,” said Lord Uriah.
***
Adah was cold, despite her heavy cloak. She stared into the crackling fire and shivered at the howl of a wolf. The moon shone from high in the nightsky and illuminated the nearby snowy peaks. The nights were eerie in Arkite Land, and lonely.
“Drink this,” Prince Ishmael urged, as he sat beside her.
Adah a
ccepted the stone cup of tea, first warming her hands and then her throat, as she sipped the honey-sweetened liquid. Despite his band of mountain-bred ruffians, rough, callous, hard-bitten warriors, the prince was a man of taste and superior courtesy.
He reminded her of another roughly bred noble. That brought back bitter memories, and a bitter tale. It was a tale often told back in Poseidonis.
“Why do you look so sad?” asked Prince Ishmael.
Adah shook her head.
“Please,” said the prince. “I see the sorrow on your heart. You must bleed it, and set it free.”
Adah smiled sadly.
Prince Ishmael moved closer. “I heard others talking today. They said Lod helped you escape your homeland. That a First Born rules there.”
Adah felt the old familiar fears stir. She hated thinking about Poseidonis, about what the enemy had done to her fair land.
“Do you yearn for Poseidonis?”
“Do you yearn to return to the Land of Shur?” she asked.
Prince Ishmael’s face went blank. He nodded, and turned away.
“I’m….” She touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
He faced her, smiled and shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
“Once my isle was a fair place, with bright people and well-built towns,” she said. “Now…”
“Tell me what happened.”
“It’s a sad story.”
“Aren’t they all?” asked the prince.
Lines furrowed Adah’s forehead. She thought about it, and she thought of other times she’d sat around a campfire late at night. It had been a long time since she’d told the tale. As a youth, she’d heard it all the time. She smiled and leaned forward.
Prince Ishmael leaned against a rock as he sipped tea.
***
Lord Triton ruled well and justly, and the Isle of Poseidonis knew peace and posterity. Fishermen plied the coasts, herders walked the hills, vine cutters and coconut gatherers raised large families. In the lone city of Atlas, priests prayed to Elohim, jewelers fashioned clasps for ropes of pearls, masons erected stone granaries and ship captains haggled in the main market square. A city guard was the isle’s only armed force, and when the people gathered for feast days, great wrestling bouts and javelin throwing contests between the youths occurred. Maidens wove baskets and sewed garments and judges handed out fine rewards. At night, all sat around singing songs, as they drank palm wine and ate rice cakes.
The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) Page 12
