The Sword of Tubal-Cain
Lod used the one thousand shekels and built the ship, a mighty carrack, and sailed to the Isle of Poseidonis. There he met a shoal of kraken, summoned by their master. Afterward, on a plank, Lod began a lonely voyage into the uncharted southern ocean.
Zillah also had a son, Tubal-Cain, who forged all kinds of tools out of bronze and iron. Tubal-Cain’s sister was Naamah.
-- Genesis 4:22
-1-
The stars glittered in crystalline mockery at the man below. His vessel was a beefwood plank, flotsam tossed on a dark sea of perdition.
He’d sailed for weeks, south by southeast, into uncharted desolation. The last sight of land had been his damnation, the awful Isle of Poseidonis.
Black waves hissed as they barreled at him, threatening burial under tons of crushing weight. In the end, the sea decided on a subtler torment. Each wave in succession heaved him high to view the hopelessness of his plight. Then down he sledded into a trough, surrounded by walls of water.
That he’d survived this long was testament to his will, to his grotesque physique and fury. Hundreds of leagues ago he had been an oar slave in a galley of Poseidonis. He had been a legend, a prodigy, drawing the slave oar for twenty long years. Hatred had driven him, a grinding rage to even the score of life. He’d defeated scurvy, plague, the lash and lung rot. He’d pulled the weighted oar until his fingers had become like talons, crooked and superhumanly strong. His muscles had twisted and expanded. Whips had ripped his back into evil scar tissue. Hot brands had seared his flesh and heated his soul until Elohim had sent him visions of fire and blood. In fevered rage, Lod had burst his chains during a sea battle and he’d floated to Larak. There his fiery oratory and sheer physical presence had won him a band of heroes who wished to strike back at the evil god of Poseidonis.
Weeks later, the isle had hoven into view onto the horizon—it was the last known land in this region of ocean. Beyond, said mariners, the equatorial sun boiled the sea so steaming vapors rose. Bitterly, Lod recalled what had happened next.
***
Harsh-voiced pterodactyls swooped down from the sky. After circling twice, each beast flapped with disquieting haste for the isle. Several hours later, the waters bubbled and kraken half the size of the ship surfaced. With lashing tentacles and parrot beaks, the kraken smashed the carrack and devoured the screaming crew. Lod alone survived and crawled onto a plank. A strong current caught him and carried him relentlessly south by southeast toward the legendary boiling sea.
During the voyage, he starved and knew raging thirst. Yet he refused the bitter fruit of defeat that invisible sirens shrieked at him on the wind. Nor would he drink the mocking wines of futility that sounded suspiciously like the hiss of passing waves. He endured the burning sun that peeled his skin in swaths. With his knife—a most precious possession—he cut his belt into strips and made a hook out of the buckle. Then he lay on the plank one listless noon and lured a gull that must have desired the delicacy of pecking out his eyes. He wrung its squawking neck and drank the blood, and devoured most of its flesh. Later, he used the heart, liver and spleen as bait.
He swore an oath that day. If he survived, he would raise an armada, a grand fleet filled with warriors, and storm Poseidonis. He would topple the brazen idols and shatter the gore-spattered altars. He had not pulled the weighted oar for twenty long years to lose his life like this. A flock of pterodactyls and a shoal of kraken were not going to thwart his visions. His mistake had been in thinking too small. His foe was mighty, possessed of eerie powers, with offspring of terrible renown.
Terrible renown…after many weeks, the equatorial sea began to live up to its evil reputation. Lod grew aware of it one pregnant morn. Waves slapped across the green waters. Far in the distance—
***
Lod struggled to his hands and knees. He squinted. He had long white hair and beard and blue eyes that verged on madness. There was a glow on the southern horizon, a shine, and it wormed dread into his heart.
Did the sea indeed boil?
He lay down, fretted fitfully and drifted into an uneasy slumber. Several hours later, he rose up like a hound with a rabbit’s scent in its nostrils. On the wind, he smelled dirt and wet leaves. He smelled loam and rotted vegetation.
“Land,” he croaked, this his first word in weeks.
He slithered onto his shrunken belly and plunged his hands into the sea. He grunted with effort, struggling to move his plank. The waterlogged wood was too ungainly to move easily, and the ocean swells and current had their own destination in mind.
Lod soon panted, and he glared with savage intensity. How far was the land? He rubbed his eyes. Could those distant specks be birds or were they simply more sun-induced spots that he’d seen for weeks?
He swallowed in a throat racked by thirst. Should he dare drift into the boiling sea or take this slim chance for land? Stiff as an old man, he dove into the green murk. Breaching his final reserves of strength, Lod struck out for what he hoped was land.
-2-
Days later, Lod heaved onto his side. He rolled across silks and seemed to upset the rhythm of whatever he rode on. As if in a dream, he spied a canopy of linen above and all around him. The construction he was in rose up higher than before and then came down with a jarring thud. The bottom of it must have struck ground. Oh. He was inside a litter, one that men carried on their shoulders.
Curtains swept back and a tall ancient peered down at him, confirming Lod’s suspicion. The old one wore a white turban, had a leathery face of amazing nobility, and a beard like the cleanest fleece. The beard dangled past the belt that cinched the man’s saffron robe. The long fingers that held the curtain trembled—because of his great age, no doubt. He wore golden rings with curiously etched hieroglyphs.
From behind the ancient peered short, thickset men, oddly colored brown and blue. They appeared to be primitives dressed in leopard-skin sarongs. Every time a primitive moved, he clanged with a multitude of copper bracelets and anklets. Ah. Lod realized the blue were tattoos of swirling designs. The brown was the native color of their skin. Most of the primitives clutched copper-headed spears, although a few of those were flint tipped. They wore fantastic, peacock-feathered headdresses, but otherwise seemed dark haired.
The ancient chattered at him, with strange clicks sprinkled in his speech.
Lod shook his head, which caused hurt behind his eyes. He lay back with a grunt, saying, “I cannot understand you.”
“I asked,” the ancient said, in the tongue of the charioteers of Elon, “if you’re finally lucid enough to talk?” Despite his gauntness, despite his trembling hands and his head’s tendency to sway, the old one had a strong voice.
“Who are you?” asked Lod. “Where am I and how did I get here?”
The ancient smiled and lines etched across his narrow face, showing that he had most of his teeth. He shoved the curtain wider, and the boniness of his wrist became apparent.
“Four days ago my men found you lying on a beach, tangled in seaweeds. They asked me if you were human or some spawn of a Nephilim. They’d never seen someone muscled like you or with such burnt skin. They wanted to shove you back into the sea for the crabs to feast on.”
Lod passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m Lod,” he rumbled. “I recently captained a vessel of war.”
The disaster crashed upon his memories: the splintered wood, the cries of his sailors and the shock of the cold sea as he’d pitched in. With blood seeping from his scalp and blurred vision, he’d swam to and crawled upon a plank, collapsing in exhaustion. Sharks and worse sea creatures had cruised the crimson waters. Eglon was dead, torn apart by predators. Fortunately, Zeiros had remained behind in Larak. Would he ever see the moneylender again?
“I war against the Nephilim,” Lod said.
The ancient dipped his turbaned head, and Lod saw something odd in his charcoal-colored eyes.
“I’m Zared.” The ancient hesitated and watched Lod closely.
When no reaction was forthcoming, Zared said, “I myself dragged you off the beach and into the litter.”
Lod found that hard to believe. Old Zared didn’t look strong enough for either task.
“I’ve spooned you parrot-rice soup these past days,” Zared said, “laid cold cloths on your feverish head. Other than carrying your litter, these warriors, the Holon, want nothing to do with you.”
Lod murmured his thanks. Before either could speak further, wild screams erupted behind them.
The copper-armed warriors shouted; sandals pounded and anklets clashed, denoting a larger band than Lod had realized. He swiveled his legs off the silks and put his feet on the ground. Dizziness made his head hurt. He thrust himself upright just the same and then swayed, feeling nauseous.
Huge jungle trees surrounded them. Thick vines looped from many. Ferns and fronds grew thickly. Lod became aware of the heat and humidity. The screams came from behind the dense foliage, from high in the branches. Then a piece of yellow fruit catapulted out of the trees and smashed against one of the stocky warriors. The sticky fruit dripped from the warrior’s chest in orange streaks. That seemed to be a signal. More fruit rained, along with rocks and sticks. The screams sounded simian. Then Lod spied a huge long-limbed ape swinging through the branches.
The warriors chattered wildly, pointing at it.
The great ape clambered onto a branch about fifty feet high. Wood creaked at its weight, which had to be more than thrice that of the largest warrior. The monstrous creature had a low receding forehead and bloodshot eyes set much too closely compared to a human. Its lips peeled back to reveal yellowed tusks. The beast bellowed and jumped up and down so the branch creaked ominously. With its grotesquely huge hands, it stripped off leaves and hurled them down. The triangular leaves fluttered harmlessly to the jungle floor.
Lod scowled, reminded of the terrible Nephilim ape-creature he’d fought in his younger days in the primeval Zimrian Forests. The great ape up there wasn’t as big or as vile. It was a natural beast like the white apes of the Hanun Mountains.
In any case, the beast’s fury grew. And by an odd alchemy—the rumblings in Lod’s stomach perhaps, the lingering effects of fever and the stupefying weeks at sea—Lod had the impression that the ape cursed them in its animal tongue. It was most peculiar.
“The beast wants us to leave,” Lod said.
Zared turned with astonishment. “Do you understand its speech?”
The question startled Lod. “I understand animals.” One of his secrets to survival long ago as bait had been because of his grimly learned insights concerning the giant canal rats of Shamgar.
“By the spirit of Adam,” Zared declared. “You speak all animal tongues?”
The screaming ape, the strange question and maybe the humidity combined to make Lod wonder if he’d sailed off the Earth’s edge and onto some shadowy realm of unreality.
He massaged his throbbing head. “No. I understand the beast’s actions.”
Zared scrutinized him.
One of the tattooed warriors gained his courage and bellowed at the ape. That warrior had the most copper bangles, and he jangled as he charged, cocking his throwing arm. He had a black spear of oggo-wood.
Zared whirled around, and by it, he showed more agility than someone his age should have. He barked a command.
The warrior almost cast his spear. At Zared’s voice, however, the warrior stopped, lowering his arm. The man glanced back at Zared, and he spoke meekly.
The great ape watched the interplay with transfixed attention.
For a moment it appeared to Lod as if the beast understood what occurred: that the white-bearded ancient had saved its life. The ape hooted at Zared, but it didn’t seem to be a sound of derision, but apish thanks instead. The hairy beast thereupon faced the jungle, screamed and leaped for a hidden vine. He let loose another scream, an authoritative sound.
Other hidden apes quit bellowing. No more rotten fruit sailed out of the jungle and the rain of sticks and stones ceased. In their place came the sounds of creaking branches and heavy bodies that slapped against giant leaves—the sound of the great apes retreating.
“They’re leaving,” Lod said.
“There will be peace between us now,” Zared said with a grin. “We spoke different tongues, the ape and I. But we came to an understanding.”
The feeling of unreality intensified, as if this jungle obeyed principles oddly altered from those Lod knew. It made him uneasy, made his powerful hands twitch.
Zared nodded knowingly.
“You’ve recovered enough of your strength, I think. You can depart if you wish. The Holon have sworn to protect me to the finish, and their vows are irrevocable. Probably there is nothing but death ahead for all of us. If the legends are true, and I most certainly think they are…”
“What legends?” Lod asked.
The old one looked into his eyes, an uncomfortable scrutiny. There was a strange vitality to Zared, a hidden force of will. The old one’s gaze bored into his, seemed to tunnel into his soul. Lod wanted to shake his head, but found he could not. The gaze bored deeper still, with authority.
Zared now spoke in a low almost hypnotic voice. “You said you warred against the Nephilim. Whom did you fight?”
Lod found that his tongue and lips had become numb. Those eyes…they seemed to make it hard to think. He murmured, “We sailed for Poseidonis against its First Born.”
“What happened to your ship?”
“Kraken,” Lod mumbled. His eyelids were heavy.
“Your will is strong, Lod, maybe as strong as your muscles. Tell me about the kraken.”
Lod fought the sleepiness. He struggled against those dark eyes. They seemed to peer into him, to—No! A second time he tried to shake his head and found that he still could not. That stirred an ember of rage in him. He fanned it by a litany of silent oaths. Unreality, a shadowy realm— With a wrench of effort, Lod tore his gaze free of the old man. It left him panting, his knees wobbly and him enraged.
“I’m sorry,” Zared said, and he clapped Lod on the shoulder. “I should not have tested you so soon. But you have little time left. Even one like you—”
“Make sense, old man,” Lod said.
Zared chuckled dryly before he turned to the blue-tattooed warriors and chattered rapidly. Those carrying bags flung them down and dropped packs. Others began to pick up sticks and others gathered the ape-thrown fruit that littered the ground.
“Are you hungry?” Zared asked.
Lod realized he was ravenous. He nodded sullenly.
“Then let us eat.” Zared clapped his hands, and the primitives hurried to their particular tasks.
***
A fire crackled. A log popped and exploded with fiery sparks that were borne upward on a heated draft. Dismal cries echoed around them in the dark, together with the whirr and chirp of thousands of nighttime jungle insects.
Zared half-reclined upon a canopied litter set before the fire. The old one sipped yellow date wine from a goblet and nibbled on stripes of yak meat. Despite the jungle warmth, a blanket lay over his thin legs while he propped himself upon silk cushions. Beside him sat a strange brazier, a small portable pot set on a tripod. The pot was an enclosed container of black iron with a sooty grill, and it possessed an ivory-covered handle. Embers glowed within, and two times now Zared had taken black lumps from a bag, opened the grill and tossed them within. It might have been Lod’s imagination, but the flames seemed to devour the coals with greedy speed.
Lod sat cross-legged with the oldest warriors. He towered over them like a bear among wolves. They circled the main fire, younger warriors acting as servants and guards. Lod and the seated warriors had consumed the thrown fruit. It had a sharp but tasty tang. They had gnawed on the stringy flesh of sloth, garnished with fire-crisped locusts and downed with many cups of beer. The younger warriors had apparently contented themselves with sticky rice balls.
Lod now leaned over and forked more meat ou
t of a large copper pot and onto his wooden plate.
The warriors nearest him grinned and nudged one another. They seemed to delight in his prodigious appetite. Otherwise, the older warriors waited silently, at times glanced sidelong at Zared. The old one stared into the flames. The flickering light gave his elderly features a sinister appearance, like one of the mummified dead with well-preserved, leathery skin. Only the occasional twitch of his fingers, as they gently fluffed his beard, gave any hint of life.
Lod fingered his wooden cup. The canopied litter, the special goblet, the wine and the way these primitive warriors revered the old one—
“Are you their king?” Lod asked.
Zared blinked like one waking from a long slumber. It brought animation to his wrinkled features. His neck seemed to creak and he turned toward Lod.
“Eh?” Zared asked.
“They treat you as their king,” Lod said.
“No, Zared said, “as their patriarch. Kings are a Nephilim invention.”
“I’ve never heard that.”
Zared smiled sadly. “There is much I’m sure you haven’t heard.” He took a deep breath, blinked again and glanced at the goblet in his hand. He set it aside, and he spoke: “You thought it strange before when I wondered if you knew the ape’s tongue.”
Lod kept his face impassive as he silently congratulated himself on picking up a knife earlier. There were too many strange occurrences here. If his watery ordeal hadn’t left him so weak …
“I can read certain thoughts easily enough,” Zared was saying. “A man’s face is a map. It often betrays him.” He arched an eyebrow at Lod. “For instance, you’re wondering if you could fight your way free of us.”
Lod scowled and glanced at the squat warriors around him. He could certainly defeat any three of them, but an entire band just now… They would pull him down as a baying pack of war-hounds would a wounded sabertooth.
Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations) Page 14
