Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Zared pointed starboard. “I see the archaeopteryx. It paces us.”

  Lod eyed the bird. It was hardly more than a speck in the sky. Old Zared still had excellent eyesight, it seemed, although his balance could be better. Speaking of which, Lod saw Zared stagger as the barge surged upward and then fell downward with timbers groaning.

  “Hang onto something,” Lod shouted. “It would be a pity for you to fall overboard and scald yourself.”

  Zared gave him an unreadable glance before grapping a stanchion. Afterward, the old man intently watched the island and then the waters around them.

  “Is something wrong?” Lod asked.

  “I don’t trust the bird. It’s here for a malicious reason.”

  Neither spoke after that. The jungle odors dwindled with each stroke toward the isle. The murky depths turned a progressively deeper green, while a salty brine smell battled the hold’s sulfurous stench.

  Zared went below, added more powder and returned with glowing embers in his black firepot with the ivory handle. He ran bony fingers through his patriarchal beard. He frowned, and then he craned his neck, studying the sea in all directions.

  “Are you expecting trouble from the sea?” Lod asked.

  “In truth, I expect trouble everywhere. This place…”

  Lod pushed his bulk against the steering oar. Sluggishly, the barge hove toward the island. He could smell the approaching foliage, the damp greenery that burst in profusion upon the isle. He thought about the carrack from Larak and their approach to the Isle of Poseidonis. Kraken had risen from the depths then. What would rise up here?

  Oars clunked as the Holon propelled them toward the mystic isle. Lod spied an area of bubbling, and steam rose hotter there. He thought to see glowing lava chunks in the water. The boiling sea was living up to its reputation.

  With a heave, he pushed the steering oar again, taking them around the bubbling area. The isle drew closer yet.

  “There,” Zared said. “Do you see?” He pointed at the island, at a gray portion along shore.

  Lod shaded his eyes from the sun. “It looks like stone.”

  “Yes.”

  “An ancient dock maybe,” Lod said.

  “Exactly,” Zared said.

  Lod glanced sidelong at the old man. “Have you been here before perhaps?”

  Zared appeared not to hear the question.

  “I asked—”

  “I heard you,” Zared said. “Yes. I have been here before…long, long ago.”

  Something about the way the ancient one said that made Lod ask, “How long ago? Who are you really? How do you know so much? I think it’s time you told me exactly.”

  Zared regarded him, and it seemed for a moment as if the old man would strike with his firepot of coals. Finally, the ancient grinned. “Do you not yet realize, Lod? I am very, very old.”

  “Yes?” Lod rumbled.

  “I am Zared, son of Jared, son of Mahalalel, son of Kenan.”

  Lod shook his head, not understanding.

  “Kenan was the son of Enosh. Enosh was the son of Seth. Seth’s father was—”

  “Adam,” Lod whispered.

  “My great-great-great-great-grandfather was the first man. Like them, I have lived now into my nine hundreds. Different from other men, the patriarchal line was gifted with long life. And it is true we often beget children late in life. I lived before the coming of the bene elohim, and I saw their fall. These rings are from that time, and they contain a certain influence. Lod, I have watched humanity throughout the centuries. Men used to understand that Elohim delivered them from the hands of demonic gods. Now the First Born and Nephilim bedevil humanity as once their fathers did. Men today are not like those of old.”

  “Did you live during the time of Lamech?”

  “He was of my generation,” Zared said. “The youth he slew was my brother.” A troubled look came over the old one’s face. “I fought the sons of Lamech, and I held Naamah for a time in my stronghold.”

  “What?”

  “That was long ago,” Zared said. “Now…now I have finally come to the island to tear down Yggdrasil.”

  Lod pointed at the huge volcano. “Why bother? That mountain will spew lava soon enough. That should destroy the sapling from the Tree of Knowledge.”

  Zared made a harsh sound.

  “What aren’t you saying?” Lod asked.

  “Can you not read the signs? The volcano should have blown ages ago. Sorcery holds its fury at bay. No, Lod, we have much to do on this island.”

  “Where is your axe to chop down Yggdrasil? The copper blades of the Holon won’t do that.”

  Zared lifted his firepot. “I do not need an axe.”

  “A simple fire to burn it down?” asked Lod, dubiously.

  “This is no simple fire.” Maybe Zared saw Lod’s questioning glance. “Long ago, in the days of war against the bene elohim, the greatest shining one summoned balefire from the heavens. I was there. I saw it fall like lightning and burn with great haste. What’s more, I went to that strange fire as it died down. I dared poke a branch into the supernaturally hot flames. It nearly consumed my stick. Yet I managed to bring the flame to a box of coals. I have kept the fire burning throughout the centuries, Lod. Once these flames are fed fuel, even green wood… Believe me, once I salt the tree with these coals, it will burst into fire, consumed with startling speed.”

  “What other marvels are you waiting to unveil?” Lod asked.

  Zared didn’t answer. Instead, he watched the approaching shore.

  “Where is the bird?” Lod asked.

  Zared glanced around. “It is gone. It has hurried into the jungle.”

  “To the ruins, you mean?”

  “Yes, to the ruins, I suppose. Now let me watch in peace, Lod. I must set my mind for the coming task.”

  -5-

  The Holon would not leave their places on the oar benches. They sat like statues, their chests slowly rising and falling. It was the only indication they yet lived.

  “What does this to them?” Lod asked. “I think you must know.”

  “Ancient sorcery, my friend,” Zared answered. “You felt the power of the obelisk. There are others on the island.”

  “Only those with rings like yours can move freely, is that it?” Lod asked.

  “You move.”

  Lod stared at the old one. There was something dreadfully wrong with this island.

  A wan smile twitched across Zared’s lips. “You are a Seraph. I knew men and women like you. The fires of zeal burn hot in you, protecting you from many evils. It allows you to resist the sorcery. Yes, I feel I must finally confess.”

  Lod grew tense.

  “I had a prophecy concerning you, a helper in my hour of trial.”

  “To help you burn the tree?” asked Lod.

  “And other things,” Zared said. “Come. It is time.”

  “No,” Lod said. “First you must tell me everything, not just toss me hints.”

  “I have told you all. We are here to burn the tree and collect Tubal-Cain’s sword.”

  “And what else?” Lod asked. “Why does the archaeopteryx have the stink of sorcery about it?”

  Zared’s ancient face grew leaden, and he turned away before saying, “I am afraid that we are also here to kill, Lod. More I will not say. More I do not dare, not here, or she might hear. Are you with me or will you remain on the barge until I return?”

  “Is it safe to leave them here?” Lod asked about the Holon.

  “We must hurry. Otherwise, I fear for their lives. Keep on your guard, Lod. We are in great danger.” Without another word, Zared jumped over the gunwale, landing on the gray stones of a sunken dock.

  Lod followed, also landing on the heavy blocks. At Zared’s command, he had driven the forward part of the keel onto these ancient cyclopean stones. According to Zared, the blocks had once stood taller than a man. Over time, they had sunken into the beach so they covered it like shingles of stone.

&n
bsp; Zared led the way. He carried his firepot in one hand and a gnarled staff in the other. Lod followed, with his two-foot dagger snug in its scabbard. He also had a pouch of throwing stones that he’d collected throughout the trek.

  Lod stopped at the jungle’s edge. Zared paused, looking back at him. Frowning, Lod tried to pinpoint his unease. He stared back at the barge, listening to the lapping waves. Wood creaked at times. It was the only noise. No…he heard a distant rumble. He realized it must be the volcano gurgling with lava. His eyes narrowed as he concentrated.

  “Are you ill?” Zared asked.

  Lod raised a hand. What was— He snapped his fingers. “I don’t hear any birds, any insects. Why is that?”

  Zared moved his shoulders uneasily. It might have been a shrug.

  “Are the animals hiding?” Lod asked.

  “I doubt it,” the old one muttered.

  “You know what’s wrong, don’t you?”

  “I have a suspicion, nothing more.”

  “Tell me,” Lod said.

  “I think the animals have fled the island.”

  “Did the insects also flee?”

  “I suspect so, yes.”

  “No,” Lod said. “I don’t believe you.”

  Zared raised his eyebrows.

  “Nothing lives on the island, no animal, insect or man or woman. They did not leave. They died.”

  The ancient one blanched. “That is a remarkable conclusion. How did you reach it?”

  Lod snarled as he peered at the jungle growth before them. Why would all the animals and insects die? It was unnatural. “Is this a product of the sorcery?”

  “Come. We must hurry.”

  “Why can the archaeopteryx live here if other beasts cannot?”

  “You are a fount of questions, Lod. You weary me. Good-bye. I have no more time for you.”

  With a nimbleness he hadn’t shown before, Zared strode into the jungle. Lod almost let him go alone. He debated returning to the Holon and leaving this godforsaken land. Instead, with his heart beating with fierce emotion, he followed the old one. He was determined to burn Yggdrasil and keep its fruit out of Nephilim hands.

  Soon enough, he reached the fast-moving Zared. The old one nodded in greeting. Then the ancient concentrated on his footing, often disengaging a sandal from tangled roots or stepping over a mossy fallen branch. It didn’t get any easier as the two men trekked deeper into the gloom. Damp heat oppressed them, and the jungle was as silent as a tomb except for the thud of their boots and sandals. The air burned down Lod’s throat. He felt vile sorcery tickling against his mind, against his soul, a dank force that attempted to still his limbs and quell his beating heart.

  “Stay close to me,” Zared said. “Perhaps the influence of my rings will protect you.”

  That seemed an odd comment. Then Lod noticed a faint nimbus glowing from the hieroglyphics on the rings. That set his teeth on edge, and he realized despite Zared’s words earlier, there was something tainted about those trinkets.

  “Where did you get those?” Lod asked.

  Zared paused as he climbed over a large mossy bole. He peered as the rings as if looking at them for the first time. “I think they were a present. Yes, that’s right.”

  “From whom?” Lod asked.

  “Long ago…long ago…Naamah gave them to me.”

  “The sorceress?”

  “Yes. She made them in the days she was my captive.”

  Lod scowled. “They shine. Do you see that?”

  “Because she is near,” Zared said.

  “Do they corrupt your thinking?”

  Zared seemed to ponder that until he shook his head, and he slid onto the other side of the fallen trunk, continuing through the jungle.

  Lod followed, more uneasy than ever. Then, past several large trees, he spied a plinth of black stone. It lay to their right, and large golden hieroglyphics shone upon the gneiss.

  “Ah!” Zared cried from ahead. “Here it is.”

  Lod bulled past a wall of vines in time to see the old man alight onto a forest path. Zared hurried out of view.

  Sweat streaked Lod’s face and his mouth was parched. He shrugged off the strap of his canteen and let warm water trickle down his throat. In the hidden distance, the volcano rumbled with greater noise. He waited, half-expecting it to blow. Finally, he capped the canteen and hurried along the trail, gaining speed. He was about to shout for Zared to tell him to wait. As he drew down air, he burst into a huge clearing.

  Lod stopped in amazement as his head craned upward. Before him towered a great ziggurat of stone. It seemed to reach upward into the heavens. Each section was smaller than the one it sat on, although a mighty set of stairs led upward. To see this here in the middle of the island—how many thousands, tens of thousands of slaves had toiled and died to construct the monument?

  First, the same slaves must have torn out hundreds of trees to make room for the ziggurat. The jungle fought back, though, seeking to reclaim what it had lost. Gigantic vines snaked over the great edifice, as if they could choke the stone and crush it. Upon the thick cables bloomed hundreds of thousands of large purple flowers of gorgeous color. The vines and flowers sought to bury the ziggurat, leaving only the stairs and the scintillating golden house upon the towering apex bare.

  Zared stood several feet away from the base of the stairs, staring at the mighty monument. Maybe he heard the scuffle of Lod’s boots. The old man turned suddenly, and he said, “The flowers are the purple lotus. You must be careful here, Lod, not to breathe too deeply. Otherwise, you will never awaken again.”

  “Purple lotus, you say?” Lod asked, with his hackles rising. “I have heard it said that necromancers use the evil bloom for their incantations.”

  “Yes,” Zared said in a soft voice. “It is true.”

  “Listen to me,” Lod said. “Tear off those rings. They bewitch you. Then unleash your balefire. Use cleansing fire and devour the lotus. Burn down everything. We must hurry and do our appointed task, departing before this place destroys us.”

  “We must first reach the top before we attempt such a thing.”

  “Why? What lies in the golden house?”

  Instead of answering, Zared took a step toward the ziggurat.

  Lod grabbed one of the ancient’s arms. Given the shrunken muscles, he was surprised to feel the man’s strength. “I know about ziggurats, Zared. The evil ones cut out the hearts of the living high on top. This is a dread place, filled with ancient evil. You must listen to me and tear off those rings. They corrupt your thinking.”

  “No!” Zared shouted, and he tore his arm out of Lod’s grasp. Before Lod could grab him again, the ancient one bounded forward and reached the steps, moving up them with the agility of a goat.

  Lod scowled. He liked this less and less. He could feel the island’s oppressive weight of sorcery, the doom of thousands, tens of thousands perhaps, and the lost, shrieking souls of the damned. Vilest necromancy had been practiced here, the worst of the demonic arts. What was wrong with the old man that he raced up there? Why did he wear a sorceress’s gift of rings? Zared had a secret, and Lod didn’t like it that this was the place where the ancient would probably reveal it.

  This was the moment of decision. What should he do?

  Lod watched Zared scamper up the steep steps. The old man meant well, and he had a worthy goal. But this place reeked of sorcery and it had probably unhinged Zared’s mind. Maybe that’s why his plank had drifted in this direction these many weeks. Elohim had sent him to help Zared. Lod felt his heart hammer in his chest. He knew the truth. For twenty long years he had urged the One Above to break his chains so he could hunt the Earth as the avenging blade of Elohim. Now he had the opportunity to act his part. Dare he turn away and run for safety?

  “No,” Lod muttered. With a growled oath, he set his face and marched for the ziggurat, reaching the bottom steps. He put his boot on the first one and began to climb. The steep stairs rose upward too far. Soon, sweat sprun
g onto Lod’s face and his breathing came in heaving gasps. How did that old goat find the stamina to run as he did?

  Lod cursed under his breath as he watched Zared disappear into the golden house. “Old fool,” he muttered.

  Instead of increasing his pace, Lod steadily strode upward. The jungle floor grew farther away, the treetops neared and then he spied the volcano. A thin line of black smoke trickled from the cone into the cloudless sky. As he continued up, he listened to his own labored breathing and the thud of his boots. Then a terrible scream broke the silence. It echoed out of the golden house. A second later, the archaeopteryx shrieked triumphantly from within.

  With a hiss of steel, Lod freed his blade, and then bounded up the steps as fire burned in his blue eyes. The soot-colored bird with its lizard tail flapped out of the golden house and shrieked at him as it climbed into the air.

  Lod ignored the archaeopteryx. He didn’t think it had made Zared scream. In seconds, Lod reached the top of the stairs. He had climbed to a dizzying height. The golden house stood before him. It loomed large like a temple, with marble columns adored with wicked designs of powerful men holding down naked women of great beauty as they raped them. The scenes reminded Lod of Gog’s Temple in Shamgar. He snarled as he plunged into the gloom, passing a heavy door, entering the structure.

  It had a vaulting domed ceiling, and light shone down from arches above. A great altar of black obsidian squatted in the center, with channels for blood to flow. Mighty heaps of treasures were piled against the walls: golden chalices, coins, opals, rubies, silver crowns and glittering jewels. As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, seeking his friend, Lod finally spied Zared. The old one lay sprawled on the tiles with a spear in his belly. Blood pooled around the old man, pumping from the ghastly wound.

  Lod sank into a fighter’s crouch, with his arms outstretched, glancing left and right. He saw nothing move, although a statue of a woman stood near the altar. She wore a golden mask of startling intricacy. It was breathtaking. The statue’s limbs were marble of flawless purity and proportion. The ancient sculptor must have been a genius. Expect for its perfect beauty, the statue was amazingly realistic.