The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “He near.”

  “How can you tell?” Herrek asked, growing alarmed.

  “Sometimes I hear him.”

  “When?”

  “When we draw closer to Nephilim.”

  Herrek shuddered. He feared the trolock.

  Harn whined, beginning to pace back and forth. His wedge-shaped snout was only inches from the ground.

  “Ready?” Sungara asked Herrek.

  Herrek struggled to his feet. He must save Joash. Then, somehow, they must stop the evil ones. “Let’s go.”

  Sungara whistled to Harn.

  Herrek shook the tangled hair out of his eyes. The grueling pace continued.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Orns

  Now the LORD God had formed out of the ground all the beasts of the field and all the birds of the air. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name.

  -- Genesis 2:19

  A week ago, Tarag’s band left the Hanun Mountains. Now they had almost made it through forested Nebo Land. At times, they entered large clearings filled with sunlight, the only places in the forested land where grass grew thickly. Joash would look back then and spy the distant Hanun Range. In the opposite direction rose the rugged mountains of Arkite Land. The mountains spread along the entire southern horizon. Somewhere, hidden in that mountainous interior, was the Garden of Eden, the Tree of Life and the terrible guardian Cherub with his flaming sword.

  Joash sighed. A week and a day ago, he had seen the last facet to Tarag’s plan. It had been the missing ingredient, as he’d wondered how a mere First Born would dare stand against a Shining One with celestial strength.

  Massive boulders from a recent landslide had blocked a narrow pass. The sides were too steep to climb without hammers, pitons and ropes. To backtrack and find another pass, that could add days.

  So Tarag had summoned the Gibborim. The secret offspring of Yorgash had chanted necromantic spells (Joash had learned this from Hrungir). The Gibborim used spirits packed into the skulls, releasing them through their wicked arts. That had filled Tarag with evil spirit power. It had granted the First Born even more superhuman strength than he normally possessed. At the head of the company, Tarag had lifted impossibly huge boulders and hurled them aside. He’d cleared a way that would have taken many bull mammoths to do likewise. With such superhuman strength, Tarag could face the Cherub on equal terms.

  If that weren’t enough of an equalizer, three giants would stand by Tarag’s side. They would hew at the guardian Cherub with their Bolverk-forged axes. Mimir, Hrungir and Motsognir could stand the fiery stone many times longer than any other giant could, and now without flinching.

  Huge, twisted oak trees presently surrounded the First Born, the three giants and Joash. The limp leaves hid the stars. The humid air tasted muggy like a swamp.

  About twenty feet up, a squirrel crawled across a silvery branch bare of leaves. It carried a nut, but paused, sat up to clutch the nut and stared at Joash. It was hungry and curious.

  With a start, Joash realized he could dimly peer into the squirrel’s simple mind. It wanted more nuts, but the huge, two-legged creatures stood on them.

  Run away! Joash told the squirrel.

  The squirrel’s ears twitched. It popped the nut into its cheek and dashed up the branch, its bushy tail straight up.

  Joash swayed as a cold feeling washed across his heated skin. He hadn’t spoken to the squirrel, but had told it what to do with his mind. He shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t mind-talk with animals. No, he was going mad. He thumped onto an old tree stump, and put his face in his hands.

  Tarag interrupted his thoughts, by ordering him to hold up the fiery stone.

  Joash slid off the stump, dug out the stone and showed it to the gigantic Tarag. Soon, Tarag plucked the stone from his hands. Tarag moaned like a lion or a tomcat in heat. It grated on Joash, made him want to hurl a rock at the First Born and yell at him to be quiet. Tarag’s strange face contorted like an angry lion, as he bared saber-like fangs. The First Born lacked gloves. By clutching the fiery stone as he did, light shined between his furry fingers. His massive arm trembled. His eyes narrowed. Still, he clung to the fiery stone, and inured himself to its awful power. Panting, Hrungir turned away, with his hands on his knees. Motsognir sank to his knees and crawled elsewhere. Finally, Mimir spun around, snapping branches as he took several quick steps away from the stone.

  At last, Tarag’s hand opened, as if on its own account. The stone tumbled into Joash’s grip, but still, the huge First Born stared at the celestial rock. As the giants dropped like spent hounds, thumping, crackling leaves or snapping branches, Tarag whispered, “Put it away.”

  Gravely troubled, Joash obeyed.

  ***

  The next day on the trail, Joash was hardly aware of the passage of time. He drank water, mechanically chewed bread and beef, muttered when spoken to, and idly scratched his side.

  He’d been looking for a way to escape, but the giants watched him too closely. He had believed time and routine would change that. They would drop their guard, trust him more and present him with the opportunity. Now, he wasn’t sure. Soon, Tarag wouldn’t need him any longer, not if the First Born could hold the fiery stone. He had to escape before it was too late, before they no longer needed him, and killed him.

  He fingered the sinews to the mammoth-hide bag, following Mimir’s footsteps by sound as much as his distracted sight. The trouble was more than just escaping a few minutes. He had to stay out of their grasp. Yet they ran faster, had more endurance and were allied with sabertooths and Gibborim. They were vastly better trackers than he was a hider. This was an unsolvable puzzle.

  A possible answer came as they marched through the boulder-strewn foothills of Arkite Land. These hills had deep gullies, forested areas, narrow streams, rocks and boulders. This was a stonemason’s paradise. The rugged highlands reared in the near distance. They climbed more often, and the air had become thinner.

  Joash had become more rugged. His wounded thigh had healed, and constant walking had given him endurance. Carrying the stone had taken from him, however. He had always been lean. Now he’d turned gaunt, with sharp cheekbones. It seemed the bones might rip through his skin. There was an eerie light to his eyes, a deep stare and something like a rabid wolf caught in a hunter’s steel-jawed trap.

  The chance came during a noon break. Joash walked among the three giants and Tarag. They were on the side of a hill, near its top and climbing. The others were a hill back. They feared the fiery stone, and had begun to fear the three and Tarag. Lichen-covered rocks littered the slope. Grassy vistas were spread all around. From a previous hill, Joash was vaguely aware they headed toward a pine forest. After reaching this hilltop, there would be two more and then the forest.

  Joash had been cataloging terrain for several days now. The hunted, rabid wolf part of him had been pacing even longer than that. He had to escape, if he wished to live.

  Now, as the sun shined on them, Tarag sat on a rock and ordered Joash to take out the stone.

  The giants grew tense, glancing at each other. Soon, they circled Joash.

  Joash fingered the sinews, blinking, building up the nerve. He fumbled at a knot, composed himself and took a deep breath, as Tarag impatiently tapped his hand on his knee. Soon, Joash unwound the leather and produced the terrible stone.

  “Ah,” Tarag purred. He plucked the fiery stone out of Joash’s hands.

  Something about the speed that Tarag did it snapped something in Joash. He scowled, and the deep stare in his eyes flickered with more of the rabid wolf look. After days of fevered worrying, cunning now blossomed. A hard smile stretched Joash’s lips. He was surprised he hadn’t figured it out sooner. He cracked his knuckles and took a step back. Then, he waited, and under hooded lids, he watched them closely.

  In time, the giants fell panting to the ground, overcome. Still, they’d l
asted longer than ever before. On his hands and knees, Mimir still glared at the fiery stone. He flopped onto his chest and covered his head like the other two. Tarag also lasted longer. The stone slid from one hand, but he caught it with the other. That hand shook horribly. He groaned, switched hands, and as his entire body shook, he deposited the fiery stone into Joash’s hold. Joash waited, as his heart beat wildly. If he failed, they would never give him another chance.

  Today you must act. Now you must do it, or forever bow your knee to the enemy.

  Joash panted as sweat slid into his eyes. Maybe another day—“No,” he snarled silently.

  “Put it away,” Tarag whispered. The First Born watched the stone, always trying to last a little longer.

  Joash remained motionless.

  Tarag wilted. “Away,” he whispered. “Cover it.”

  Joash pressed his lips together. Otherwise, a feral grin would have given away his plan.

  “No,” Tarag mewled, and he turned his head.

  Joash stepped closer, to Tarag’s right. He lifted the stone, putting it nearer the First Born’s face.

  “What are you doing?” Tarag whispered. “Put it away.”

  “Gaze at Elohim’s fiery stone,” Joash intoned.

  Tarag hissed, as a cat tossed into a pool might.

  “Elohim calls you a rebel,” Joash said.

  Tarag hissed, as if in pain.

  “Do you dare stand against Elohim?”

  Tarag hands rose, as he made great furry fists. “I dare,” he whispered.

  “Gaze at His glory,” Joash said. “Look into Elohim’s face.”

  “I am,” the huge First Born whispered, and he had a terrible smile, revealing his beastly fangs.

  The sane part of Joash quailed. But the wolf in him refused to back down. The First Born was clever. Maybe the cunning First Born had waited for just such an attempt as this. Maybe he’d always held back a reserve.

  The part of Joash that yearned for freedom, the part that loved the trumpeting bull mammoth, the Seraph in him cried out, “Mighty Elohim! Let Tarag of the Sabertooths see the glory of the fiery stone as it once shone upon the Holy Mount!”

  The sun dimmed as the stone glowed with radiance. Tarag mewled in agony, and threw a mailed arm before his eyes.

  “You are the rebel!” Joash shouted. His eyes squinted because of the awful shine.

  “Take it away,” Tarag begged. “I can stand no more.”

  Joash pressed the fiery stone against Tarag’s snout. Tarag cried out. With the clanking sound of armor, he sagged to his knees.

  “Take it away!” the First Born cried. “Let me hide in darkness!”

  “Elohim!” shouted Joash.

  Tarag snarled, and he groped with his left arm. Joash ducked, and the heavy arm passed over him. Then, Joash groaned. The fiery stone was too much. He dropped it into the mammoth-skin bag, and staggered away. He almost ripped the belt from him, leaving the stone so he could run faster. But he could not allow them the celestial artifact. In that moment, he knew his mission. He must take the fiery stone to Eden and give it to the guardian Cherub. Only then would it be safe from the evil ones.

  Joash maneuvered past rocks as he charged up the hill. Nor did he look back. He didn’t want to see Tarag lumbering after him. Soon, he moved through waist-high grass. He tried to keep boulders and bushes between him and the other hill. No doubt, most of them ate their midday meal, and wouldn’t top it for ten or twenty minutes.

  He reached the summit. With a strained laugh, he ran downhill, picking up speed. He ran around boulders, another set and suddenly, he skidded to a stop.

  A giant hiked up his pants, tied them and turned around as he kicked dirt into a hole. Joash had forgotten about the scout.

  “What are you doing here?” the giant asked.

  The giant had dark plaited hair that reached past his shoulders, and he had hard, black eyes. It was Ygg the Terrible, with his necklace of human fingers. The grim giant picked up his spear propped against a boulder. He leaned on the spear, clutching it just below the Bolverk-forged spearhead, as he waited for an answer.

  “I’m....” Joash licked parched lips. Before the towering giant, he felt small again. Sweat poured as Joash tried to think. “I’m thirsty,” he said, not daring to lie, not with the fiery stone in his possession. There was a riverbed at the bottom of the hill, although a dry one.

  “Where’s Tarag?” Ygg asked, his face betraying his suspicions and his nervousness about being near the fiery stone.

  Joash vaguely waved his hand toward the summit.

  “You’re trying to escape!” Ygg said, lifting his spear, straightening.

  Joash knew he only had one option. He dug the fiery stone from his pouch, and definitely shouted, “Kneel before Elohim’s radiance!”

  Ygg groaned as his knees quivered. He had never built any resistance to the stone.

  Joash stepped toward the giant. The spear fell from Ygg’s grasp and clattered against a rock. The giant clapped his hands over his eyes. A weird groan seeped past his lips. He trembled violently.

  Knowing his time was short, Joash hurried past Ygg, tucking the stone back into its pouch. Motsognir’s silver horn blasted the mountain air, as Joash reached halfway down the hill. The horn rang once, twice, thrice. There were distant shouts.

  Joash looked back. A bronze helmet appeared as a giant climbed his side of the hill, almost to the summit. Then, Tarag charged onto the summit. The First Born bellowed and pointed.

  Joash hunched his shoulders. His spine tightened with fear. He ran wildly, ducked behind rocks, pushed through bushes that tore at his clothes and crunched across smooth stones of a small mountain riverbed. He began to climb the next hill as Tarag roared down behind him. The First Born seemed winded. Gibborim raced onto the summit. Joash’s stomach knotted. The cloaked Gibborim ran down the mountain, like cascading water, quickly passing Tarag. The Gibborim ran almost as fast as hounds.

  Joash made his arms pump, to swing as he clenched his hands into fists and forced himself to run uphill. His thighs burned. Air whistled down his dry throat. In moments, his lungs ached. It felt as if he crawled uphill.

  Fierce roars sounded from the other summit, his summit, although the authors of those roars were still out of sight. He looked up in alarm, caught his foot on a rock and staggered. He kept his balance. What had made those roars? His mind was blank with fear and fatigue. Yes, sabertooths. They’d been away from camp, hunting for their midday meal. Now, Tarag called them. Of all the luck—a laugh burned out his throat. He remembered what he carried. The big cats hadn’t been able to endure the Valley of Dry Bones. He had nothing to fear from them as long as he had the fiery stone. Panting, with sweat dripping from his chin, Joash climbed the hill. The roars increased.

  Joash slowed from exhaustion. His breathing was harsh in his ears. His thighs were jelly. The forest of pines was still a hill or two away. He looked back. The swiftly running Gibborim leaped across the smooth stones of the dry riverbed. He could hear their cloaks flap, and he saw their long, gleaming rapiers. They would cower before the fiery stone, he knew. But then, fear hit him. They could cast spells. How close would they have to be before he was in range of their evil magic? He didn’t think he’d be able to nullify all their spells. Just one getting through his Seraph power would be enough to end everything. After today, there were no more second chances.

  Joash groaned and forced himself uphill, even though his lungs burned as if with fire, even though the roars of sabertooths told him they ran up the other side. Behind the Gibborim marched giants. Behind the giants, strode Tarag in his gleaming armor, beginning to recover from his fiery stone ordeal.

  The first sabertooth topped the hill. It was like doom to Joash. The massive gray beast, with over-muscled shoulders, roared down, saliva dripping from his huge fangs. The sabertooth’s yellow eyes blazed with rage, his titanic bulk promised death for whoever faced his might. Old Three Paws from Jotunheim could never have faced that bru
te. A giant might fear to match it.

  As Joash stared at the great cat in mortal dread, seeing his body stretched on a board as the Gibborim teased his soul from his tortured frame, Joash recalled a wonderful fact. He had been able to look into an eagle’s thoughts. That had been when he’d first handled the fiery stone. Later, he’d actually told a squirrel to flee. Had bearing the stone somehow given him the power to communicate with animals? It seemed so, unless he was going mad, and this was all illusion.

  Joash pushed uphill toward the monstrous cat, and concentrated on peering into its thoughts. He didn’t sense the heart pump or the lungs fill with air. Instead, he saw the great vitality, the courage and the bloodlust of the sabertooth. And he saw, too, a great dread and fear of Tarag. The sabertooth must obey his god. The fierce dictator demanded allegiance no matter the cost. The command lay heavy on the sabertooth. Joash realized the great cat was Tarag’s slave.

  It wasn’t words Joash heard, but a sort of sight, a feeling, and an understanding with the great beast. He shared thoughts, concepts and knowledge. His power had grown since his insight with the squirrel.

  Joash wondered if Father Adam been able to do this in the Garden of Eden? Elohim had told Adam to name the animals. They had come to him. Surely, Adam had been able to communicate with them. Had handling the fiery stone returned some of Adam’s lost powers to one of his distant, many times removed grandsons?

  More sabertooths joined the first. They snarled at Joash, a wall of furry savagery.

  Giddy at his new power, Joash told them, “You may not attack me.” It was as if he hurled cold water on them. The sabertooths gazed in hurt puzzlement. Then, one by one, they bowed their massive heads as they would to a king.

  Panting and light-headed, with sweat dripping from his hands, Joash stroked their soft fur, and murmured, “You are no longer bound to Tarag. You are free to return to the wilds.”

  They roared savagely, the sounds shaking Joash’s bones and his ears aching. For as long as they could remember, they had been bound to Tarag. For as long as they could endure, they had followed his bizarre commands. Now, the Gibborim raced uphill. Tarag had ordered them to leave the vile creatures unharmed.