Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Lod spotted a massive galley with a red-painted sail in the distance, far to the front. According to the sailors he had overheard earlier, two other galleys flew such blood-colored sails. The fleet was divided into three flotillas, three separate squadrons of maneuver, each led by a red sail. At night the three leaders hung lanterns from their bows.

  They sailed for Larak, for the glorious merchant capital of Shinar, the greatest of the cities in the land between the rivers.

  Zeiros had told him that three and half years ago a host had marched overland; the enemy had marched west from the Bay of Great Sloths and defeated the army of Larak. For three long years thereafter the force had sat outside the walls, besieging the city. Gibborim had prowled the countryside, burning everything and crucifying anyone unlucky enough to fall into their hands.

  Lod shook the moneylender’s elbow.

  Zeiros blinked bleary eyes, snorting, lifting his head off the unmoving loom.

  “Tell me about the fire ships,” rumbled Lod.

  A scowl creased the moneylender’s haggard features. “You woke me to ask that? Everyone knows about the fire ships.”

  Betraying no impatience, Lod waited as if carven from granite.

  Unease crept into Zeiros’ eyes. He dipped his head. “Your pardon, Lod, I meant no disrespect. The fire ships, yes, they are an old weapon of legend. For reasons of my own I used to wonder about them. Eridu, I believed, hid behind their legend. Our king, you see, heavily taxes the moneylenders, heavily taxes the merchants and nobles to pay for the upkeep of our war fleet. Like the sailors of Iribos—or should I say the Iribos of old—the sailors of Larak rely upon the ram rather than the boarding crow. Such tactics take constant training and highly skilled crews, and those require money. Hence the overburdening taxes. But Eridu relies upon neither ram nor crow. She is content to rest upon the legend of her terrible fire ships. Their city fleet is thus small. That in turn means lower taxes for them, and that gives an unfair trading advantage to her moneylenders and merchants. Because of it the crafty traders of Eridu often undercut us, charging less and taking the profits out of our pockets.”

  Lod shifted upon the bench, carrying nothing about these profits.

  Zeiros dipped his head. “Suffice to say that I decided to pierce this legend in order to force the men of Eridu to man a fleet like ours or to pay for greater complements of soldiers on their merchant ships, or else to take ruinous losses as emboldened pirates captured their trade vessels. Ha! Then let them compete with my rates. They would have to charge more in order to recoup their losses. Well, in my endeavor to learn the truth, I found a courtesan of remarkable talents. She had cunning and a daring that swordsmen only brag about possessing. Through an unusual set of circumstances I was able to worm her into the king of Eridu’s harem. Ha! That is a place of intrigue, my friend, of poisoned cups and whispered words that send the unlucky under the headsman’s axe. There my courtesan flourished, from time to time finding herself in the arms of the king’s eldest son.”

  “The son?” rumbled Lod.

  “Disgusting, I know,” whispered Zeiros. “The son defrauded his father, but oh, what a delicious piece of information to possess, eh?” Zeiros dared nudge Lod. “The fact that I tell you this shows my trust in you and my certain intent to pay over the one thousand gold shekels that I have promised.”

  “Tell me about the fire ships.”

  “Yes, of course. As I was saying, the eldest prince delivered most interesting tales concerning those legendary ships. The prince corroborated the stories my House historian had told me and that other of my spies had found within Eridu’s inner wharves. If you’ll recall the old lore, many centuries ago certain sons of Cain took to the sea.”

  “The Mehujael,” Lod said.

  Zeiros’ eyebrows rose. “Indeed, you’re right. Few lore masters even know that name. My House historian only discovered it by exhausting his oldest tablets. You are well schooled, my friend.”

  Lod remained as motionless as before.

  “The Mehujael, it’s said, armed themselves with the then newly forged iron swords of Tubal-Cain and the plundering creed of Lamech. And they set upon the sea lanes, swarming like locusts, devouring cities in their path and leaving little but smoking ruins. They decided to pluck Eridu, then the richest city of Shinar. According to the oldest tablets, every pirate, scoundrel and cutthroat of the seas came flocking to the Mehujael. All were eager to partake of the rape of Eridu. Soon the armed horde was disgorged from the armada and thousands of slaves began to dig a trench around the city while thousands more continued to ply the Mehujael oars. No merchant ship or galley could enter or leave Eridu without the consent leave of those bloodthirsty sons of Cain. The city’s demise seemed certain.

  “But then one night a man named Bela Zin hammered at the lesser door of the Dung Gate. Once admitted into the city, he told the guards that only he could save Eridu. He demanded to see the king at once. Quite naturally the guards imprisoned him, and that should have been the end of Bela Zin of Shurrupak. However, such an outlandish boast made the rounds and finally the king heard of it. He ordered his guards to bring this Bela Zin to him. Once in his Majesty’s presence, the slender Bela Zin spoke about a concoction of chemicals, the fashioning of odd machines and an even madder scheme. The young alchemist assured his Majesty that only he knew this dreadful secret. The astounded king agreed to the scheme. Nothing else had worked and the day of Eridu’s doom was fast approaching.

  “All summer carpenters hammered madly in the inner wharf and the metal-workers were given bewildering instructions. Then the sea chain strung in front of Eridu’s harbor was lowered and out rowed a tiny squadron of ships. The people of Eridu were horrified to see such a pitiful fleet sail to its doom. For a time it seemed as if the shocked Mehujael would let this squadron sail away. Then the masses of pirates and slaves shoved their galleys off the sands where they lay, sliding the warships into the sea. Soon hordes swarmed the Eridu fools. They blocked the squadron’s path back to the harbor and encircled the predestined losers.

  “It was then that the new weapon was revealed for the first time. Men on the forward deck of the leading Eridu galley were seen to be adjusting a heavy brass tube, while others of the crew labored at the handles of a pump. Suddenly, from the mouth of the tube a flame licked out, followed by a torrent of fire. As the men on the forward deck swung the tube, the fiery stream changed its direction, pouring down upon the nearest Mehujael ship. At once the stricken vessel was enveloped in flames, which not only consumed the woodwork and rigging but also poured out upon the water and seemed to set the surface of the bay itself on fire. The enemy crewmen screamed and died in agony.

  “Now other vessels from the city had their fire tubes in operation. Singly and in groups, the Mehujael vessels were enveloped in flames. Those not yet entrapped turned to flee this dreadful new weapon, against which none could fight.

  “Eridu was thus saved and the surviving Mehujael fled to the Jogli Steppes, where they joined other sons of Cain already in the land. Now no history I know of speaks about Bela Zin of Shurrupak after that. Not a few have wondered at his fate. Ah, my courtesan learned of his terrible reward. The king of Eridu of that time realized the power of such a wondrous weapon. So he had Bela Zin throttled in the depths of the city dungeons, lest the alchemist take his secret elsewhere. And the formula of this ‘liquid fire’ the king kept hidden. The kings of Eridu have ever since then passed this secret on to each eldest prince and to certain alchemists forever imprisoned in Eridu’s deepest pits. But only for the direst perils will the fire ships of Eridu sail, lest in some manner the great secret be torn from them.”

  “Moist fire?” rumbled Lod.

  Zeiros lowered his voice and leaned nearer. “Once I learned the truth of the legend, I sought the full secret of moist fire, of fire that burns on water. Can you imagine the price such knowledge could command? Ah, it enticed me, I admit.” The moneylender’s eyes seemed to shine. “To show you my earnest and goo
d intent I will tell you two of the secret ingredients, the two that I learned of, are naphtha and bitumen.”

  Lod shrugged indifferently.

  Zeiros’ eyebrows lifted in amazement, and he looked upon Lod as if seeing him for the first time. The moneylender laughed, a short, sardonic bark that earned him the glance of a whip-master.

  Zeiros wisely lowered his head. After the guard turned elsewhere, the moneylender whispered, “Yorgash is mad to send his fleet against the fire ships of Eridu. Combined with Larak’s galleys—they say that Yorgash is the blackest of sorcerers, that in a thousand years none have delved as deeply as he into such diabolical wickedness. Only the Accursed, the celestial bene elohim who sired the First Born, trafficked in more vile spells. Yet even Yorgash’s enchantments will fail before the fire ships. Worse, if we remain aboard, we too shall burn.”

  “Yorgash is not mad,” Lod said. “The son of perdition will have a plan.”

  Zeiros blinked several times. “I’ll grant you that his Gibborim are unbeatable on land, but on the sea it’s another—”

  “No!” Lod smacked the oar. “The Gibborim are not unbeatable, land or sea.”

  Zeiros smirked. “You are mighty, my friend, but you sit here at the oar-bench just like me, just like all of us. Now the Gibborim do not sit here, do they?”

  Lod’s nostrils flared, and he balled his thick fingers into two trembling fists.

  The oar slaves around him grew silent and wary, while the oar master sitting near the kettledrummer perked up. He called out and pointed at Zeiros. Feet pounded on wood and whip leather whistled through the air and with a crack landed upon Zeiros’ naked back. The moneylender shouted, and as the whip fell again he cringed. Twice more the whip struck, leaving Zeiros shaking as blood trickled down his back.

  “Do not trouble the Old One!” shouted the whip-master. “Agitate him again and you will be tossed overboard.”

  Trembling, Lod turned away and peered out the oar port. Fire ships… The thought of burning Gibborim, their pale flesh blackening and dripping off them like wax brought a mad light to Lod’s blue eyes.

  -8-

  Captain Eglon tore off his cuirass, flinging it into the corner of his cramped quarters. It slashed a sack, spilling sapphires so they rolled onto the floor. Packed crates had been stacked almost to the ceiling, barely leaving room for his bed. The crates held costly silks of the East, jars of shekels and thagweed plugged into slender bamboo shoots, all acquired from his fierce weeks of piracy.

  He whirled as a trumpet pealed from outside. The blood drained from his fleshy features. Oh, he should have fled far south when he had the chance. Fool! The Master knew all. Worse, the Gibborim obeyed his orders. With the purest of silk handkerchiefs he wiped sweat from his jowls. The Gibborim’s presence meant death for all who rode his galley. Unless… His dark eyes glittered as fat almost enfolded them in a suspicious squint. Would pterodactyls come at the last moment and snatch the Gibborim aloft? Was that even possible? Or could Gibborim fly? He had heard rumors to that account.

  The four iron rings of his sword hand moved convulsively with the twitching of his fingers. If the necromancer tried to escape his doom, Gibborim or not… Rank sweat clotted Eglon’s silk garments, making them cling to his swells of fat. Dare he slay a Gibborim? Dare he try? Was such a feat even possible by a man?

  The trumpet pealed again. It was strident, commanding, a clarion call of doom: his own, he was certain.

  He ripped a drumstick off the half-devoured fowl at his table, gnawing the greasy flesh, chewing mechanically. His sucked at the hidden caches of flesh, the little bits that tried to cling to the bone. Oh no, no, no. His teeth clacked against the bone and his blubbery lips drew out whatever morsel it possessed. Then he pitched the bone out the porthole, and with his thick fingers he tore off a strip of breast. This too disappeared into his mouth and down his gullet.

  To ease his nerves he plucked the choicest vintage from under his pillow. It was a green bottle of Shurrupak wine, from the gardens of Prince Amraphel. With a savage motion he smashed open the neck, and he gurgled the fine wine, gulping, gulping, ah… He smacked his lips. Choice wine indeed: he pitched the empty bottle out of the porthole. Lastly he dug a thumb into a peach, tearing it in half, showing one part into his mouth, savoring the sweet taste and then dropping in the second. The stone he tossed into the sea.

  For the third and final time the trumpet blared.

  A snarl lifted the left side of his mouth. He was so hungry! He wanted to eat, to devour his sorrows, to calm this dread sense of ending. He sucked down air and dipped a rag into scented waters, swabbing his face and cleaning his fingers.

  Oh, to throttle someone, to hear them gasp for mercy… Why did they have to use his galley?

  Eglon lumbered to the cabin door. He yearned to kick it apart, to burst through. Instead, he twisted the handle, composed his features and stepped outside onto the deck.

  Rows of archers stood at rigid attention, their peaked caps oiled and glistening, their wooden bow and arrow-cases hanging from their belts and lacquered so they shone. Vendhyan sailors scampered into line as shrill whistles blew from the rowing hold below.

  Eglon recoiled from the vicious slave stench. How could anyone get used to that? He dug into a pouch and brought up his nard-soaked cloth, holding it against his nose. A thump told of a punt striking the side of the galley. Sweat prickled Eglon’s scalp and now his turban felt too tightly wound upon his head. It seemed too as if lead lay in his stomach. His elephantine knees quivered.

  A dark-haired painted harlot of exquisite beauty strode up the wooden stairs hung alongside the galley. She had purple-shadowed eyes, blood-red lips and wore a golden tiara. She moved with a dancer’s grace and possessed marvelous charms. They were poorly concealed by diaphanous strands of silks and dazzling strings of jewels.

  The rows of archers stirred. They stared at her with obvious longing, a few of them glancing at each other in amazement. She was wanton, lewd and bold, arching, strutting and taunting them with her smile.

  Eglon swallowed in a tight throat. It had been so long since he had stood in the Master’s court. He had forgotten the aching beauty of the courtesans and the way each with a glance could ignite him with consuming passion. He had to remind himself that this harlot was a Gibborim’s pet. She no doubt had sunk far into depravity, deep into perverted abandon. As well embrace a viper.

  “Prostrate yourselves!” she cried. “Do not dare to behold the approaching magnificence. Fall and grovel, for Lord Lamassu comes!”

  For all his bulk, Eglon threw himself face-first onto the deck faster and with more agility and servility than any of the archers, sailors or soldiers. He well knew the Gibborim and their studied attempts to ape the Master.

  After the last rustle of cloth had stilled and the clatter of a wooden scabbard, dread silence ruled aboard the Serpent of Thep until somewhere below a rower coughed and then from above a gull screeched. Eglon trembled as the silence continued. He felt the scrutiny, sensed the evil stare and the oppressive aura of the other, the Gibborim, the Nephilim-born, a child of Yorgash.

  “You may rise, Captain,” said the harlot.

  Composing his features, willing himself to cringe, to cower and whimper if need be, Eglon huffed and grunted as he worked himself to his feet, all while staring fixedly at the deck.

  “You are the wrestler?” The words were softly spoken, as if a cobra had whispered them.

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Eglon said.

  “You’re more bloated than a hog,” said with the same cobra whisper, “a ripened pig for feast.”

  Eglon dipped his head. He had learned long ago not to take offense at anything a Gibborim said.

  “Look at me, hog.”

  Eglon raised his head, for the briefest moment daring to look into the Gibborim’s eyes. They were like dots of heated ink, with as much humanity as a preying mantis shows while chewing its kill. With an inward shudder Eglon dropped his gaze. The Gibborim’s fa
ce was stiff, stark white and flawless as Pishon marble, his features handsome as a god, a mask almost without emotions. The thin lips betrayed a gigantic haughtiness, a surety of vast superiority. Lord Lamassu, as most Gibborim, was tall and thin, clad in black leather and bearing a narrow sword at his snakelike hip. Eglon knew the Gibborim to have muscles similar to bands of steel, and they were unimaginably fast. He had once seen one scale a wall like a lizard and another snap the neck of a stampeding bull. Worst of all, Gibborim practiced necromancy. It gave all of them—Lord Lamassu included—the taint of handlers of the dead, a sense of crawling things hidden under damp rocks or the sinfulness of a corpse stirring in its tomb.

  “He is a buffoon,” Lord Lamassu said softly.

  The harlot strutted around Eglon, plucking at his silken garments. “He sweats like a hog so his garment clings to him.” She sniffed loudly. “And he stinks.” She laughed. “Look! He holds a perfumed handkerchief, no doubt because he despises his own stench.”

  “I do not tolerate buffoonery,” whispered Lord Lamassu. He scanned the deck. “Over there, an archer dares to stare at me.”

  Eglon stepped toward the fool. He knew how to deal with that.

  “Hold!” hissed Lord Lamassu, throwing out a thin arm, pushing Eglon backward.

  Cold sweat leaped upon Eglon. For an instant he had felt the Gibborim’s inhuman strength. Lamassu stood so tall and thin, looking as if Eglon could break him like a twig. Were a Gibborim’s bones denser than a man’s, his muscles heavier?