Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  Lod kept scanning back and forth. Someone had thrown the spear. He saw another statue farther away, of a large muscled warrior, one a full head taller than Lod, with a bigger breadth of shoulders. The statue had a golden helm with upright green feathers. At its side sat a scabbard of gold set with precious rubies. Both statues wore purple cloth, and it seemed then as if the woman’s dress stirred.

  “Beware,” Zared whispered.

  Lod’s nostrils flared. He hated the evil ones and wondered where they hid. They must be behind the altar. He wasn’t fooled, and anticipated them any second. As he waited, listening for the faintest sound, he noticed that even in falling Zared had managed to keep the firepot from spilling its precious coals.

  “Where is the enemy?” Lod asked thickly. “Are they behind the altar, or did they flee out of this house?”

  At his words, the statue of the woman blinked. The mask had eyeholes, and the hidden orbs did the blinking. She laughed in a dry and vile manner, although the mask remained as before.

  “Naamah?” whispered Zared. “Why did you order him to…to…?”

  “You always were a fool, Zared,” the golden-masked woman said.

  Lod finally realized she wasn’t a statue, but a person with incredibly white skin and a golden mask. Did the same hold true for the warrior? Where else could the spear have come from?

  “Despite your foolishness,” the woman said. “I imagine you brought me a present. You always enjoyed giving me things.”

  “No…” Zared whispered. “I have come to finish an old task, one I should have attended to long ago.”

  The woman laughed as a succubus might, taunting. “You loved me once, Zared, when I was your captive. You accepted my rings. I see you still wear them. You had a strong spirit, but I see it has finally succumbed to me.”

  “No…”

  “Oh, don’t be angry, Zared. Come. Tell me truly. You came to regain my good graces. If that is true, I will keep you animated after you pass and let you press your cold lips against mine.”

  Lod shuddered in loathing. “Are you a dead thing?” he asked. “Is that why you live on an isle of the dead?”

  Her head twitched toward him, and Lod could feel her burning gaze. “Vain warrior, do you not know in whose presence you stand? I am Naamah the Beautiful, the lover of angels and the seducer of the bene elohim. I have known many a fiery embrace. And now this ancient son of Seth has come crawling back to me, hoping for a final kiss. Can you not see the poetry in that?”

  “You are doomed,” Zared whispered.

  “Puny man,” she said. “What do you know of doomed? I have eaten the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, from its seedling planted long ago by my mother. She did eat, and it enflamed my mind with great guile. You come to me with your pot of balefire. Yes, does that surprise you that I know about it? My archaeopteryx sniffed it out days ago. Yet I allowed you to come. I have need of his blood, Zared, and the blood of the rowers who lie like dead men in my barge on the docks. I have decided to walk again in the world of men.”

  “No,” Zared said.

  “Yes!” Naamah said, and she clenched her hands into fists. “I have supped for many long centuries, gaining in understanding. With my sorcery, I have kept the volcano at bay and the weak-minded and simple far from Yggdrasil. Now, as the First Born and the Nephilim flounder, I will show them the path to immortality and perfection. I am Naamah, and my sorcery shall walk the land in power. My knowledge brims with understanding. I see deeper than any on Earth. I have eaten my fill of the Tree of Knowledge. I have—”

  “Lod,” Zared said. “Beware the warrior statue—”

  “Statue?” Naamah asked with dripping mockery. “Do you think I fashion crude stone-walkers like Draugr Stonemaker once did? No. You gaze upon Tubal-Cain, my brother, the greatest warrior of an age. None can defeat him in battle.”

  The seeming statue of the warrior moved stiffly.

  “Tubal-Cain died long ago,” Zared said. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “What is death, worm?” Naamah asked. “With my arts, I have kept him…well, perhaps not in the vibrancy of his first life. I will admit that. I have animated his body, and it obeys my will. In full life, he was an invincible warrior. Now that he does not feel pain or the passage of steel in his flesh, none can best him. He will be my eternal champion. Even the Nephilim and their fathers will learn to fear the corpse of Tubal-Cain.”

  The warrior—the dead thing that once had been the first metalsmith—drew its sword with a shing of steel. The blade shone, almost blinding Lod with its brightness.

  Lod staggered backward, throwing up his arm before his face. He blinked rapidly, his eyes tearing. He needed to keep his vision.

  The animated corpse took several quick steps until it stood beside Naamah, guarding her.

  “What is your name?” Naamah asked Lod. “You have muscles indeed and will make a good lover.”

  A snarl curled Lod’s lips. He had expected the dead one to move sluggishly. Instead, the corpse of Tubal-Cain moved with speed.

  “Speak, man, while you are able,” Naamah said. “It is unwise to displease me.”

  “He is Lod,” Zared said, coughing up blood afterward so it dribbled down his chin. “He is a Seraph, a blade of Elohim come to hack out your guts.”

  “He is a pup and soon to lie on the altar and give us his life’s blood,” Naamah said, “although I admit the brute has strength. I am almost tempted to take him on as a lover first. He must find his tongue and praise my beauty before I would consent to that.”

  Lod thought furiously as the woman talked. She was a sorceress, and perhaps she was a dead being like her brother’s corpse. Seeing the thing’s speed just now… How did one slay one of the animated dead? Lod didn’t know. The thing bore Tubal-Cain’s famed sword. The blade’s painful shine proved that. His pitiful weapon paled compared to it.

  Ah! Lod understood then. Kill the sorceress and that might slay her magic. The way to win was to destroy Naamah.

  With a roar, Lod leapt to Zared. He grasped the end of the spear and drew it out of the old man. Spinning around, drawing back his arm as he sought the middle of the wooden shaft, he cast the bloody spear, hurling it at the woman. The missile would have certainly found its mark—Lod cast true. But the corpse of Tubal-Cain lunged into its path, taking the point in its breast. The bronze-head sank into dead flesh and the shock of the spear caused the corpse to stagger backward. Then it clutched the weapon and drew it out of its chest.

  “Fool!” Naamah cried. “You have simply given my brother the missile he’ll use to slay you.”

  Where another man might have cursed his fate, Lod acted. He let go of his dagger. It clattered onto the tiles. Then he twisted toward Zared and grabbed the firepot of embers, ripping the handle out of the old man’s weakened grip. Yanking off the lid, scorching his fingertips, he hurled the contents as if tossing out curdled milk. The glowing coals flew the distance, fanning into fire as they moved.

  The corpse of Tubal-Cain had already drawn back its casting arm, aiming the bloody spear at Lod. Before the dead thing threw, a coal carrying ancient balefire touched its marble flesh. The others thudded against it, clinging to the thing’s purple cloth. Its reaction was startling quick. With a whoosh of sound and supernatural flame, the corpse of Tubal-Cain burst into balefire. The flames licked upward ten, even twenty feet, radiating intense heat. The flames touched the ceiling of the golden dome even as great oily puffs of black smoke billowed into existence. The stench of burning skin filled the house atop the ziggurat as the dead thing staggered back and forth.

  Naamah screamed, and she beat at her dress as she fled from the human torch. She dampened her smoldering clothes, saving herself. But such was her frantic motion that she dislodged the golden mask. With a clang, it struck the floor.

  The burning corpse of Tubal-Cain also crashed upon the tiles. The thing writhed for an instant, but already the consuming balefire neared the completion of its task. For one moment l
onger, the thing attempted to rise. Instead, it fell back, and its arms and feet flaked into greasy ashes.

  “Brother!” Naamah shouted.

  Lod looked on in horror. The woman—without her mask she was hideous with mummified features. Her lips must have long ago peeled back to expose her teeth. Her eyes stared out of dead flesh.

  “Naamah,” Zared said, and he spoke with horror from on the floor.

  She screeched and reached for her mask.

  Lod roared with rage and loathing. He picked up his two-foot knife and raced at the woman.

  Maybe the corpse of Tubal-Cain saw that and acted. Did the raised dead think? In any case, the burning thing drew its famed sword and slid it across the tiles at its sister. The heated metal clattered, bumping against Naamah’s feet.

  She looked up, saw Lod and made an instantaneous decision. Grabbing the hilt of the sword, the flesh of her palm sizzled. Naamah screamed in agony even as she dove and rolled like an acrobat. The action startled Lod. Her dress whipped about and the flesh of her hand continued to fry as smoke oozed from her grip.

  Lod slowed, and he blinked continuously. It gave Naamah time to regain her feet. She stood with her dress flapping about her flawless legs. Grinning hideously, she advanced upon Lod, with the sword held expertly in her smoking hand.

  “I will carve your flesh from your bones and hurl the bloody chunks onto the altar,” she said, lunging smoothly.

  Barely in time, Lod regained his senses and parried the blow with a clash of iron. A piece of his knife chipped away and rang upon tiles. The sword of Tubal-Cain remained as sharp as ever, the contact not doing it the slightest harm.

  “My brother taught me to fight, outlander. I shall enjoy this.”

  For a brief flurry, they exchanged ringing blows. Amazingly, she matched Lod’s tiger speed and he was unable to beat down her blade.

  “Your muscles are mere show,” she said. “You are weak.” She twisted her blade, and lightning flashed in Lod’s eyes.

  He backpedaled as tears streamed from his orbs. A glance showed him his notched blade. After another few passes of steel, his knife would surely shatter.

  “Are you alive?” he asked thickly. “How can you hold a hot handle?”

  “Because I am superior to you, mortal,” she said.

  “You are mortal, too?”

  “Am I?” she taunted. “I have found the secret to eternal life. It is called animation.”

  “Lod!” Zared shouted. “Look out behind you.”

  Lod ducked as he turned. He heard the flap of familiar wings. The archaeopteryx shot above his head, with its talons extended. The bird shrieked and flapped even as Naamah rushed forward. The two collided. Naamah swatted it aside with the sword, cutting it in half. Her phenomenal speed was like a jungle cat.

  Lod acted in that moment. He hurled his knife. It twirled once in full rotation and sank into her left eye. Her head rocked back, and Lod expected her to fall. She shrieked instead, grabbed hold of the hilt, and drew it out of her skull.

  Lod knew then that she was an animated thing. The sorcery to keep her alive—in a fashion—must have slain every other living thing on the island. Perhaps the archaeopteryx had also been an animated dead thing.

  The woman drew out his dagger as black gore spilled from the ruined socket.

  Lod charged her from the blind side, but she reacted and hacked at him. He took the blow on his shoulder. The blade of Tubal-Cain cut deeply, to the bone. Yet his fingers latched onto purple cloth. He heaved, and he threw her at the smoldering remains of her brother.

  “No!” she shrieked. They were her last words. She stumbled and her feet tangled. Tripping, she thudded onto the tiles and slid against the greasy ashes of her brother.

  For a second, Lod watched. He glanced at Zared. The balefire no longer—

  A whoosh caused him to whip his head about. The final embers still contained enough substance to catch against her flawless legs. Fire burst into life. Naamah sat up, beating at the flames, but it was too late. The fire spread, and then a giant flame reached upward. Greasy clouds of smoke billowed and balefire began to consume the sorceress.

  Lod backed away even as blood flowed from the deep cut on his shoulder. That arm hung limply. As he turned to Zared, the volcano rumbled in greater noise. Did that have anything to do with the sorceress’s passing?

  Lod staggered near and knelt beside the ancient one.

  “No,” Zared wheezed. “Don’t worry about me. You must flee, Lod. Her sorcery kept the volcano at bay. You heard her. Now that she is gone, her spells begin to unravel.”

  “What about Yggdrasil?”

  “Lava will take care of it. Now go, Lod, flee. I’m as good as dead. I can feel my life ebbing away. I’ve lived too long, I think.”

  “You lived long enough to help rid the world of an ancient evil,” Lod said.

  “You are gracious.” Zared coughed. “Please, save yourself and live. Continue the good fight, my boy.”

  Lod hesitated, and he asked, “Did you love her once?”

  “Long ago…as a young and foolish man—”

  A deafening blast cut short Zared’s words. Lod looked up.

  “The volcano is erupting,” the old one said. “Flee, Lod. Take care of my Holon. Do this as a favor to me.”

  Lod hesitated. Even as he did, Zared’s eyelids fluttered, closed, and he died.

  A second blast shook the entire golden house. Piles of coins tumbled from their perches. Without another thought, Lod stood, raced to the sorceress and kicked the sword of Tubal-Cain out of her charred hand. He used a cloth to pick up the hot grip. Then he raced for the door. The shoulder cut was deep, and he would bleed more, he knew. But he had survived worse.

  By the time he was halfway down the stairway, hot lava blew out of the volcano. Lod saw it spewing into the sky in fiery chunks. The ziggurat rumbled, the steps shifted, and Lod barely kept his balance. With grim determination he continued down, vowing to live through the end of the isle of the dead.

  -6-

  The Holon rowed while Lod steered. He wore a heavy blood-soaked bandage around his shoulder. He craned his neck as another powerful eruption shook the air. Black smoke billowed out of the volcano as red lava consumed the land, flowing against giant trees and causing others to burn. Large waves slapped against the barge and the nearby sea boiled as it grew hotter and hotter.

  An ancient age had ended today. The animated corpses of Naamah, Tubal-Cain and old Zared had gone from this Earth. With them disappeared Yggdrasil, the seedling from the Tree of Knowledge. What dark schemes would Naamah have unleashed if given the opportunity?

  Lod shouted hoarsely into the hold for the men to row harder. Then he steered the best that he was able. Despite his shoulder, Lod grinned in his beard. Fire and bloodshed and the breaking of teeth—he meant to scour the world of Nephilim evil and stamp it out with a vengeance. This was a good day, even if it heralded the passing of Zared, son of Jared. He would remember the old man.

  Then Lod put such thoughts aside as he guided the barge toward land. He had a vessel and a crew again. What’s more, he had a fateful sword, a dangerous weapon. He would put it to good use. Yes, it was time to plan, but first he bowed his head and said a prayer of gratitude to Elohim.

  He was alive, and he had greater wisdom because of this day. Somehow, he had to devise a plan, one that would slay the god of Poseidonis and rid the world of his evil presence.

  The Bronze Mask

  By a long and circuitous route, Lod returned to Lord Uriah and the Suttung Sea region. He brought the sword of Tubal-Cain with him, but he left it in Havilah Holding when he went to Shamgar to hunt for Irad the Arkite. He feared the sword might fall into evil hands otherwise.

  The first war against Gog as told in Giants, Leviathan and The Tree of Life brought Lod full circle. He went to the swamps of Shamgar to do his part. The stories Gog and Behemoth tell of Lod’s fate there and beyond.

  Sometime after the actions as related in Behemo
th, Lod once again found himself in the region of the Suttung Sea. Here one named Aran tells of the beginning of the second war against Gog.

  -1-

  Nineteen of us remained, desperate, wet and miserable. We huddled under huge old oak trees on a hill overlooking the trade road that led to the Arkite Mountain passes. Sleet slashed against the leaves and ricocheted onto our faces. If we weren’t so damned hungry, not even Lod could have kept us waiting for the caravan.

  I preserved my saber in oiled cloth, clutched against my chest. Water had soaked the leather I wore as a hood. An icy drop leaked from it and slithered under my collar. It made me clench my teeth so I wouldn’t shiver.

  Those around me had laid their sabers on wet leaves or even in the mud. They used the oiled cloth as shawls. Maybe that’s why Lod had moved apart. The point was to keep our sabers from rusting. The finely tempered swords were more precious than gold. At least that’s what Lod had said on our first raid when we’d found them in a gilded chest. If he had to remind the men of that, he might hit someone. That would be bad for morale. The men had become whiny as if we were a pack of mangy hounds.

  “Tell him, Aran. This just ain’t no good.”

  I refused to look up and acknowledge the words directed at me.

  “Bezel has read the omens,” Jot said behind me. “You know that. This is a cursed day. If we stay, all we’ll have is more rotten luck.”

  Several of the men glanced at me. I saw the hope on their wet faces, a dog’s hope that its master won’t kick it anymore. They were afraid. We were always afraid before a raid. But it was worse today, if you could call this gloomy weather day.

  “Aran—”

  I shook my head.

  The rain kept pouring, forming rivulets in the mud and trickling past our feet. Mine were wet, my boots soaked. Half the band went barefoot. The rest of us would be in a few more weeks. Except for our first two raids, we had proven to be miserable outlaws. I couldn’t understand why Lod stayed with us.