Novels by Vaughn Heppner
The Ark Chronicles:
People of the Ark
People of the Flood
People of Babel
People of the Tower
Lost Civilizations:
Giants
Leviathan
The Tree of Life
Gog
Behemoth
The Lod Saga
The Doom Star Series:
Star Soldier
Bio-Weapon
Battle Pod
Cyborg Assault
Planet Wrecker
Alternate Europe Series:
The Dragon Horn
The Doomfarers of Erin
Dead Man's Moon
The Assassin of Carthage
Other Novels:
The Great Pagan Army
The Sword of Carthage
The Rogue Knight
Invasion: Alaska
Strontium-90
The Lod Saga
(Lost Civilizations: 6)
by Vaughn Heppner
Copyright © 2011 by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
Author’s Note
The Lod Saga was originally sold as three separate stories: The Beast of Elohim, Manus Farstrider and The Sword of Esus. I decided to combine the three tales into a single book. If anyone purchased The Lod Saga and has already read these stories, I apologize and dearly hope you return this book.
These stories about Lod occur many years before the novels Gog and Behemoth. They tell of his younger years. And they show some of the process whereby Lod slowly became the deadly warrior of Elohim as seen in the previous novels.
Lastly, to all those who have enjoyed the Lost Civilization stories, I want to let you know how much I appreciate the privilege of writing and selling these tales. They are dear to my heart, and I pen them with love and frankly, with excitement. That they have found a home in some of your hearts is deeply gratifying and more than a little humbling. That any of my dreams can entertain you for at least a few hours in this Post-Cataclysmic World is, I believe, a gift from Elohim.
--Vaughn Heppner
The Beast of Elohim
The legends of Lod were many, a grim hero of the Pre-Cataclysmic Age. That was long before the pyramids of Egypt rose and centuries before the ships of Crete ruled the seas. In that misty era of sabertooths, mammoths and behemoths, the demonic Nephilim walked the Earth. They were the sons of the bene elohim, who had come down from the celestial sphere and taken many daughters of men.
Possibly Lod was born somewhere along the shores of the Suttung Sea. The ancient sagas first mention him as rat bait in the wicked city of Shamgar. Leashed to a rat boat and swimming the oily canals in an iron collar, failed to prepare Lod for the wider world. But it gave him a fierce hatred for slavery.
He eventually escaped from the swamp city and traveled west across the Hanun Mountains. There, he fell in with an outlaw named Eglon. For a time, their band defied the Nephilim. It was a hard life, with harsh excitement and scant pleasures. Then Eglon died and his men were captured. Lod found himself chained in a slave-wagon, bound for the Stadium of Swords in the sprawling capital of Uruk….
-1-
Lod was about to die and all he could think about was young Argus and the boy’s cuneiform tablets. How one so young had known such a mysterious art had fascinated Lod. The pressing of the stylus against clay, the wedge-shaped marks that had told stories—it had seemed like a miracle.
The roar of the bloodthirsty crowd shook Lod from his thoughts.
He was in the land of Nod, in the terrible capital of Uruk, the first city of Earth. It was an ancient place, famed for its perversions. He was in the level directly underneath the Stadium of Swords, standing beside a stone pillar. There were hundreds of the irregularly planted pillars, and they made this place a honeycomb of torchlight and shadows. From nearby shadows, gigantic cave bears growled. Even nearer, grim braziers crackled with flames. White-hot irons had been shoved deeply into the coals of each brazier. The waiting attendants wore thick gloves, ready to press sizzling brands against reluctant fighters or beasts.
A chill ran through Lod, and he glanced at the Games Master. The man was thin like a fox and wore a scarlet robe. He had sly features and a chin beard.
As Lod shifted aside his loincloth, he turned away from the Games Master. Lod leaned a forearm against the cool pillar. It stank like urine down here and now he knew why. He tried to make water, knowing he’d not have another chance.
“Give him the helmet,” the Games Master said.
Lod readjusted his loincloth and wiped his fingers against his muscled thigh. A handler shoved a helmet toward him. The helmet was of polished steel, with a brass mask of a spitting sabertooth. It had two tiny eyeholes, while green feathers sprouted from the top. Lod wondered how he was supposed to breathe while wearing it.
“Hurry,” the Games Master said, “put it on.”
Raucous laughter rippled from the crowd above. It made the cave bears in their cages squint.
The handler thumped the helmet against Lod’s chest.
Lod scowled. He had strange blue eyes, a tigerish build and ropy muscles.
The Games Master snapped his fingers. “Bring heated irons. Burn this slave into reality.”
Lod had odd white hair for one so young. He was like a starved beast, every limb seemingly coiled with suppressed energy.
The handler chuckled perversely as the attendants with heated irons approached.
To Lod, the chuckle reminded him of the Nephilim giant who had chopped an axe into young Argus’s side. Lod’s eyes narrowed. Argus had screamed that day, lifting a clay tablet as a shield. Cuneiform had no magical powers against Nephilim-powered steel, however. There had been so much blood, so much blood spurting out of such a small body.
Lod snatched the helmet out of the handler’s hands. The helmet was as heavy as a baby. The leather padding inside was damp and smelled like sweat, like fear. Maybe they had ripped the helm off one of the poor fools who had already gone out there. When a slave died on the sand, they jabbed a hook into his ankle and dragged him below.
Lod slid the helmet over his head. The tiny eyeholes severely restricted his vision. His breath blew back against him and tasted stale.
“Buckle it,” the Games Master said.
Lod obeyed.
“Lock it,” the Games Master said. “I want to hear it click.”
Lod hesitated. Once he locked it, he would have to wait until someone inserted a key before he could remove the helm. Claustrophobia threatened. But those heated irons with their glowing white tips—he obeyed again.
“Check it,” the Games Master said.
The handler grabbed Lod’s helmet and twisted this way and that, twisting Lod’s corded neck each time.
Knuckles rapped against the metal.
“Look at me,” the Games Master said.
Lod’s head felt heavy now. He turned in what seemed like slow motion and aimed the eyeholes at the lean Games Masters.
“If you win,” the Games Master said—his chin-beard moved as he spoke. “If you win, I’ll buy you. I’ll turn you into a champion.”
A bitter sound echoed in Lod’s helmet.
“I’ve watched you,” the Games Master said. “You have strength and a leopard’s quickness. Unfortunately,
your opponent is one of the best. But he has a weakness. His left eye is bad. When he gets tired, he will be blind on that side. Make the bout last and you have a chance. Rush in right away and you’re dead.”
“I have strength and speed, remember?” said Lod.
The Games Master touched his chin-beard like a fox rubbing its face. “Your opponent is a pit slave trained to a razor’s keenness. You’re just an outlaw used to merchants cowering at the sight of your sword. Make the bout last until sweat drips from his face. Then you have a chance. Now go! The crowd is restless.”
Someone shoved Lod from behind. Within the imprisoning helm, he couldn’t see who it was, although he knew it must be the handler.
Lod stumbled up the wooden ramp into warmer air. Light poured through the gap at the top of a wooden partition. The partition led into the stadium. A slave-handler held open the door to a cage. Lod would have to enter the cage before he could enter the stadium. Another slave-handler stood ready to open the cage-partition into the arena.
In his mind, Lod tried to conjure up Argus’s tablets. The boy had read to them from a captured supply. Argus had also pressed his stylus into damp clay, recording some of their exploits. Lod wanted to see those small fingers making their marks. Instead, he saw Eglon’s black orbs, his cunning stare. Eglon had led them. The Nephilim had called them outlaws. That was their view. Instead, Eglon and the others had been the last soldiers of Elohim. They had risen up from the cowed masses. They had torn off their slave yokes. Lod had been an outsider, a youth who’d fled from Shamgar looking for a home. He’d found one for a few months. He’d urged Eglon and the others to rise up because he knew that it was better to die on your feet than live on your knees.
Lod swallowed a lump in his throat. His brave words had cost them all of their lives. He entered the cage.
The first slave-handler slammed the cage-door shut behind him and locked the bolt into place.
Only now would they allow Lod weapons. It was a wise precaution.
Lod slid his left forearm through the leather bands of the shield that leaned against the bars inside the cage. The shield was big and rectangular and had a rim of iron along the edge. He picked up a ridiculously small sword. It was more a knife, although it had heft.
When Eglon had led them, they had fought with sabers, a slashing-style sword. There had been little art to it. They had hidden in the forest until a merchant caravan rumbled near. Then they had charged out screaming. A few wild swings had always sent most of the guards running. Eglon and he had killed the toughest ones. Eglon had been skilled and they had trained together many nights.
A trumpet blared outside. Lod twisted in surprise.
Both slave-handlers outside the cage laughed.
“Bet he faints when Barkos snarls,” the man at the partition said. He hunched his shoulders and dragged open the partition. Blinding light poured in, together with the sounds of the crowd.
Lod’s gut clenched, and to his dismay, he felt a tremor in his arms. He was alone among his enemies. He was the last of a proud band.
In that moment, he saw Argus—saw the lad in his mind, pressing the stylus into damp clay, making his strange, wedge-shaped marks. Then a glittering axe shattered the mental image. Blood jetted as it had months ago. Argus fell, twitched again. A huge Nephilim giant with a forked beard loomed over the boy. The Nephilim held the axe. The Nephilim sneered and he’d spat on the lad’s corpse. The Nephilim laughed as Lod charged out of the hut. Even after all these months, Lod replayed the bitter scene day after day. How could the giant have slain such an innocent lad?
Lod lurched toward the bright light, with his hand clenched around the sword. Hate filled him. He had always felt like this when they attacked the caravans. He gnashed his teeth. His muscles tightened with a sick need to strike, to slash and hew flesh.
“Slave,” the partition attendant whispered.
Lod stared at the thin attendant, and a wild urge to stab through the bars of his cage almost overcame him.
The attendant glanced both ways. Then he pressed his face against the bars. “I’ve heard about your band.” He frowned. “Everyone kicks us slaves. Here, this is for you.”
Lod had to tilt his helmet. The attendant shoved a Jogli knife through the bars hilt-first.
This gesture of kindness, it caused goosebumps to pimple Lod’s arms. This was Elohim’s doing. This was a message. He must be brave because Elohim remembered him even here alone among his enemies. He must fight on his feet. He must refuse any shameful offers to live on his knees.
Lod took the knife and shoved it through the belt on his loincloth.
“Hurry,” the attendant whispered. “Get out there.”
“I thank you,” Lod rumbled. Then he trotted barefoot onto hot sand.
The sun struck his shoulders and struck the glittering white particles at his feet. The brightness blurred his tunnel-adjusted eyes. Because of the mask, he could not rub them, so he blinked repeatedly. He raised his helmeted head. Despite his watery vision and the tiny eyeholes, he scanned the crowded masses.
The stadium was gargantuan, built with cyclopean marble blocks. A self-styled god, one of the firstborn of a bene elohim, ruled Uruk. The architecture fed the First Born’s vanity and attempted to make men feel puny. The stadium loomed around Lod so he almost felt like a mouse trotting across a kitchen floor. There were giants in the stands, the Nephilim sons of the First Born. They were arrogant and lordly, and mostly they wore military attire, leather tunics and bear-furs. Smaller half-Nephilim sat apart from their fathers on higher tiers. The masses of puny humanity sat higher yet. They were the city merchants, the musicians, harlots, actors, moneylenders and servants of the Nephilim.
Lod’s throat tightened. The First Born sat in attendance today. He sat on a golden throne in the main box. A purple awning protected him from the sun. Dazzling beauties surrounded his throne, gorgeous women wearing silks, paints, jewels and with rouged lips. Muscular slaves fanned them all with orn feathers.
The First Born looked like a big man with perfectly handsome features. No Nephilim giant could match his superhuman strength. No woman could resist his allure. His eyes—
Lod looked away lest the First Born bewitch him.
Lod knew about the bene elohim. They had been from the heavens above. Long ago, they had descended to Earth, taken on a fleshly guise and then taken any woman they desired. The First Born on the throne was the offspring of such a union. His sons, the giants, were heroes, those of great renown. Humanity no longer ruled the world. Too many peoples had become slaves to the descendants of the fallen.
Within his helmet, Lod’s blue eyes blazed. He refused to bow down to the demons. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees. It was a hard creed, but a good one.
He gripped his sword tightly.
“Give me strength, O Elohim,” he whispered. “Let me die today like a man.”
Lod noticed the guards then. They stood in shadowed arches built into the very wall. One motioned with his spear. The guard pointed at the box where the First Born waited.
“You fool!” the guard hissed. “Go to the box. Salute your god.”
A trumpet blared.
Lod jerked his head toward the sound. His vision was so narrowly focused, it was disorienting.
The trumpeter stood in the box where the First Born lounged. A man in a yellow robe stepped beside the trumpeter. The man was a herald, a leather-lunged individual.
“There stands the chief of Eglon’s outlaws!” the herald bellowed. He pointed at Lod.
Thousands of boos and catcalls fell upon Lod’s ears. It made him hunch his shoulders.
“He is a grim fighter!” the herald shouted. “He snarls like a wild animal at our god. He spits in the face of plenty, he hisses at rationality. He is a savage. And as a savage, he is only good for our amusement. Let us see how this wild animal fares against good Barkos. Our gracious and mighty god will allow this beastly thing life as a pit slave. All it must do is kil
l Barkos, one more ferocious and deadly than itself.”
A deafening chorus of shouts washed over Lod. It shook his bones and threatened to shatter his resolve.
As the echoes died, the pit slave before the box lifted his sword toward the First Born. Barkos was thick, with thick shoulders, thick gut and thick legs. He had a shield like Lod’s, a similar sword and a polished steel helmet with bars instead of a sabertooth mask. The pit slave would have no trouble breathing through those bars.
Barkos the Pit Slave raised his voice. “I kill in your honor, Divine Moloch.”
The First Born raised a languid hand.
Lod refused to salute. He hunched his shoulders. Then another mass shout pummeled Lod.
Barkos spun around and trotted across the sand. He came as a killer, sure and confident.
Encouraging shouts drifted down from the higher tiers. They named Barkos as their favorite. They sought Lod’s quick demise.
Lod took a moment to wonder what had happened to his hate. He needed it. Barkos was a trained fighter, one of the best.
Lod shifted his stance. He faced Barkos with his shield raised. He bent his knees and shuffled toward the thicker man. Lod had learned long ago that it was bad for your spirit to wait for someone to attack. You had to attack. The thousands watching him… he felt an odd paralysis as he stared through the small eyeholes. He feared he might lose sight of Barkos, and that would be deadly.
Through the bars of Barkos’s helmet, Lod saw a hard face. The skin crinkled around Barkos’s dark eyes and showed his age. Barkos’s thick mouth had twisted into a sneer. The pit slave moved with confidence.
Lod understood that he gripped his sword much too hard. The muscled cords of his forearms strained because of that grip. Lod bent to one knee and thrust his sword into the sand. He let go of the hilt, shook his hand and flexed his fingers. Then he snatched up the sword, his grip looser than before.
“Bowing ain’t going to save you, slave,” Barkos said in mockery.
The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6) Page 1
