Lod worked alone. He was a rangy young man with a shock of wild white hair and intense blue eyes. Knotted muscles writhed across his bare torso as he dug and pitched dirt. He was like some gaunt beast, and attacked the soil as if hacking the Earth in desperate battle.
Wood chips were scattered around the giant pine stump, chips of wood, twigs, sawdust and pieces of bark. On the stump rested Lod’s war-hatchet and target shield from his chariot running days for Lord Amur. The noble had died in the salt marsh, cut in half as he crawled through the slime, trying to slither to safety. A giant’s whistling axe had killed him. The giants had easily waded through the slime, butchering the heavily armored chariot lords floundering in terror after the bitter defeat.
Lod flung sweat from his eyes, and dug. A larger axe rested beside his war-hatchet. He would use it in time on the roots.
He paused, sipped water from a skin on the stump, and then picked up his shovel. He understood that the other men feared him. They were farmers, shepherds and craftsmen. He was a warrior and a foreigner. In his heart, Lod told himself they wanted him among them. They needed protection. Arverni tribesmen haunted these mountains. Large wolves abounded and sometimes outlaws dared climb this high. So he accepted their fear, knowing that in time they would be pleased he lived among them.
Lod pitched dirt, digging around the giant stump. Whenever he came to a root, he dug around and under it. Then he climbed out of the deepening trench, grabbed the heavy axe and thudded it against the root. Tearing out tree stumps was the hardest task of all. Once all the roots were hacked off, Lod would gather oxen and haul the stump out of the earth.
He would win acceptance into the village by working harder than any three men. He was determined. He would prove to them—
“Lod,” said a soft-voiced woman.
Lod blinked, paused and straightened his sweaty back. His white hair was tangled before his eyes. With a dirty hand, he swept the hair aside. He was waist-deep in the earth, his head even with the top of the stump.
The soft-voiced woman smiled shyly. She was Lila, One-Eyed Tomas’s daughter. She was dark-haired like the rest of the villagers and wore a long gown of yellow linen. She clutched a small basket. She had bare arms, and she wore a yellow talender in her hair. The talender was considered the love flower. For a maiden to wear one…
Lod grinned.
It made Lila blush. “I-I brought you some cheese and fresh bread. I thought you might be hungry.”
Lod climbed out of the trench. He dusted his hands and then clapped them against his legs. “You look pretty, Lila.”
She blushed more furiously than ever, and she bowed her head, no longer able to meet Lod’s gaze.
Lod took one of her hands, holding it in both of his. It was so soft, and so small and delicate.
Lila looked up shyly into his eyes.
It made Lod’s heart beat rapidly. Like a brute, he hulked over her. He released her hand, and using his finger, he tilted her chin upward. He kissed her lightly on the lips.
“Lod,” she whispered, shuddering.
“Lila!” a man shouted in outrage.
Lod looked up. Lila glanced over her shoulder, and she gasped.
A young man charged up the gentle slope of pine stumps. At the end of the field watched three other men, one of them Tomas, Lila’s father. Each of the three watching men held axes. The young man, the charging one who had shouted, had dropped his axe. He brandished a knife. It wasn’t a warrior’s knife, but a farmer’s utility knife. Just the same, he had it in his fist as he sprinted up the gentle slope.
Lod tried to dredge up the man’s name.
“Oh, Bran,” Lila whispered. Her small hand had flown to her lips. Worry creased her pretty features. She looked up at Lod. “Bran… Bran is supposed to be my...” She bit her lower lip and twisted around to stare at Bran.
The young man wore homespun woolens. He had dark hair and brown eyes, and was shorter than Lod. Bran was strong for a farmer, for a young man. But he lacked Lod’s animal-like vitality.
“Get away from her!” Bran shouted. He panted from the sprint. He also held the knife in front of him. “Get away! I’m warning you!”
“Bran,” Lila said. “You can’t… you mustn’t—”
Bran shouted wildly, closed the final distance and grabbed Lila’s nearest shoulder. He would have jerked her away from Lod, but Lod moved quicker than a snake. He smacked Bran’s hand, knocking it off Lila’s shoulder.
Bran’s eyes went wide. With an inarticulate howl, he launched himself at Lod, blindly striking out with the knife. Lod slapped the knife-hand out of its path and swung a vicious fist. It smashed against Bran’s jaw. Brutally, the young farmer’s head jerked backward as bones broke. He pitched backward onto the soil and lay very still.
Lila screamed. The basket dropped from her hands and she clutched her face. She stared at Bran lying motionless on the ground, and she glanced at Lod. Lod’s shoulders were hunched and his eyes smoldered.
With a sob, Lila knelt beside Bran, tenderly touching his distorted face.
The three older men neared. Each of them still clutched a tree-chopping axe.
Lod shook his head, clearing it of the rage that had swept over him. “He grabbed your shoulder,” he said.
Lila wasn’t listening.
“He pawed you,” Lod said. “I thought he’d hurt you.”
One-Eyed Tomas with his eye-patch and gray hair knelt beside Bran, inspecting him keenly. “He’s alive, but his jaw is broken.” The older farmer looked up at Lod. Tomas stood, although he left his axe lying on the ground.
“You men, take Bran home. Lila—” One-Eyed Tomas stared into Lod’s intense blue eyes. “Lila, I don’t want you bringing Lod any more baskets.”
“Father—” Lila tried to say.
Tomas glanced at her, and he pointed in the direction of the village.
The other two men shook Bran awake and slowly hauled him to his feet. Subdued, Lila walked with them.
After they had reached halfway down the gentle slope, Tomas said, “I know he held a knife against you.”
“He pawed your daughter,” Lod said.
A similar flush crept upon Tomas’s old features as had happened to his daughter earlier. “She’s not for you. She’s a nice girl.”
“I treated her well.”
The flush deepened on Tomas’s face. “If Bran and I hadn’t come along—you would have taken her as a warrior. But you can’t marry her. Then who would have married my deflowered daughter?”
Lod scowled. “I wouldn’t have—”
“I’m warning you,” Tomas said. “Stay away from Lila. You’re an animal. You smashed Bran’s jaw with a single blow. This isn’t the place for you. One more attack like that… and I’ll speak to the others. You will have to leave then.”
Lod said no more, merely watched One-Eyed Tomas.
The old farmer picked up his axe. With a sagging shoulder, he turned around and trudged down the slope.
***
The brush of his lips against Lila’s—Lod thought about that more than Tomas’s words or Bran’s knife-attack.
Once, he had been rat bait in Shamgar. For years, he had floated in the canals, baiting one-hundred pound rats to come and feast upon his floating carcass. Before the giant rats could feast on him, he swam furiously for the rat boat, or the hunter hurled his three-pronged trident or cast his weighed net. Lod had gained his share of claw scratches and slashing bites from hideous incisors. He had endured in silence, at night caged as a beast and during the day trolled as live bait.
He had faced pit slaves in the Stadium of Swords in Uruk, in the land of Nod. He had hammered for silver ore in the mines of Tartarus. He was inured to unjust actions directed against him.
Lod scowled. He was deeper in the earth than earlier, his head below the top of the trench. The giant stump was like a wall beside him. The many hacked roots abraded his skin.
He had faced many injustices. Tomas’s words, however, stung
in a unique way. The one-eyed father didn’t want him near his daughter. Bran had grabbed Lila’s shoulder and would have yanked her hard. That was wrong. Lod had treated her gently. Lila was like the talender, the soft love flower. She—
“Wow! You’re in deep.”
Lod looked up at the grinning lad. The boy must be lying on his stomach. The lad had bright features and an easy smile. He’d folded his arms, resting them on the dirt. His chin rested on his arms. The face—it reminded Lod of the boy who had made marks with his stylus into damp clay. That had been many months ago. That boy had died by a Nephilim’s axe.
“Can you a chop a root for me?” this lad asked.
“Gad? What are you doing now?”
Lod blinked. That was a woman’s voice. It sounded like Lila’s. Then a different woman looked over the lip of the trench. It was Lila’s sister, Sarah. Sarah was older by a year. She was pretty in a way, but not shy and pretty like Lila. From the top of the trench, Sarah stared at him frankly, without timidity. She, too, had dark hair and brown eyes. But there was more strength in Sarah. There was less of the flowery tenderness that exuded from Lila like a scent.
“Gad, your mother is shouting for you,” Sarah said.
“She is not,” said Gad.
Sarah lightly stepped on his foot.
“Hey!” Gad shouted. He wriggled out from under her sandaled foot and jumped up.
“You’d better hurry home,” Sarah said.
“I want to see Lod chop a root the way he hit Bran,” said the boy.
“Scoot,” said Sarah, waving her arm.
“Aw,” said Gad, but he took off sprinting for the village.
After he had gone, Sarah frowned down at Lod.
He didn’t care for that. So he picked up his shovel and dug into the earth with a thud.
“Haven’t you dug far enough?” Sarah asked.
Lod didn’t say anything, just pitched dirt out of the deep trench.
After several shovel’s full had gone up, Sarah asked, “Why do you stay here?”
Lod glowered up at her.
Sarah laughed dryly. “No wonder everyone is scared of you. One wrong word and you glare like a madman on the verge of murder. Combined with those muscles and how you move like a cat—”
“He would have hurt your sister.”
“Who would have, Father?”
“The young farmer,” said Lod.
“You mean Bran?”
“Yes, that was his name.”
“Bran is supposed to marry Lila.”
“They’re betrothed?” asked Lod.
Sarah made a face as she brushed hair from her eyes. “That’s a fancy warrior’s term, or one the lords would have used. Everyone in the village just knows that Bran and Lila will marry. The war—the war upset the plans. But soon enough—”
Lod cocked his head. He sniffed. There was a faint smell of smoke on the air, wood smoke. He jabbed the shovel into loose dirt and scrambled out of the trench. He scowled in the direction of the hidden village. He cocked his head, listening. Was that a scream?
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.
Lod scanned the treetops, the swaying of pines and evergreens. Like a blow into his gut, he spied trickles of smoke. It was black smoke, and it snaked into the sky from where the village would approximately be. Fireplace smoke would be white, not that dark color. He listened more carefully than before.
“You’re beginning to frighten me,” Sarah said.
“Quiet,” snapped Lod.
Sarah folded her arms and appeared about to speak again. Then she, too, turned, and she frowned.
“What do you hear?” asked Lod.
“It… I’m not sure. It sounds like screams.”
Lod hesitated another second. After the battle of Ramoth or the battle of the salt marsh, he had fled the valley. Would the god of Shiva send warriors this far up the mountains? Or had Arverni headhunters come raiding?
Lod leaped over the trench and grabbed his shield and war-hatchet.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked.
“Stay here,” Lod said. He leaped the trench again and sprinted down the gentle slop. He ran for the village as anger and fear welled in his chest. If anyone hurt Lila—Lod ran faster.
-2-
Lod sprinted out of the forest and into the clearing around the village. A crude palisade surrounded the camp. The bark was still on the big logs that stood upright in the soil, creating a large oval protection. The single log gate with its heavy leather hinges was open.
Flames licked upon log cabins and huts within the palisade. Screams, shouts and war-bellows rang against Lod’s ears. He spied a terrified girl, with her hands holding up her long dress, as she sprinted out of a burning hut. She ran wildly down a lane and out of sight.
A thin stranger wearing silken black robes stood by a mule outside the gate. That one wore a hood. Perhaps a premonition caused that one to turn. He had a lean face, with sunken cheeks and black marks around his eyes. He seemed like a vulture of a man, a necromancer or a beastmaster. He took a step back as Lod emerged from the woods.
At the same moment, three strangers, warriors in coarse tunics, dragged a screaming, struggling young woman out of the gate. The three laughed brutally. Their spiked shields were on their backs. Their short swords and dirks were in the scabbards on their belts. As they dragged the wildly screaming girl, the largest warrior put his thick hand on the back of her dress by her neck. He yanked savagely, ripping the dress off the girl. She shrieked, and covered her breasts. A different warrior wrapped his arms around her, lifting the naked young woman off her feet. He began to march around the open gate.
The black-robed necromancer must have said something. The three warriors turned quickly.
Lod sprinted near, with his white hair flying.
With an oath, the warrior let go of the girl. She dropped to the dirt in a daze. All three warriors tugged out their swords and tried to unlimber their shields. With vile oaths, they fanned out, readying themselves.
Behind them, the girl jumped up and staggered for the woods. The black-robed stranger, the vulture of a necromancer, dragged his mule. He yanked it through the gate, into the palisade and out of sight.
Lod bellowed a battle cry as he engaged the three warriors. In a whirlwind of savagery, he chopped his war-hatchet, and ducked and dodged as the swords licked out. He was like a lion among snarling wolves. He dashed out a warrior’s brains, severed a man’s jugular with a vicious sweep and broke the third warrior’s nose with a bash of his target shield. As the warrior reeled back, Lod finished it, using the spike of his war-hatchet, crowning the would-be rapist.
Lod wrenched free his war-hatchet. The nude girl was gone. So were the necromancer and his ill-burdened mule.
Worried for sweet Lila, Lod ran into the palisade, into the smoke billowing from log cabins. Flames leaped on roofs. Men, women and children screamed and darted everywhere. He saw a farmer swing his wood axe. An invader flopped dead at the farmer’s feet. Then an arrow sprouted from the farmer’s throat, and the man reeled into chugging black smoke.
Lod sprinted for Tomas’s cabin, reaching the backside. High-pitched screams sounded from within. Lod shook off his shield, slashed the small, oilskin window and crawled through.
He burst into the kitchen as coarse warriors piled in from the other direction.
“Lod!” screamed Lila.
Lod whirled around. Lila staggered toward him. The talender was still in her hair. A bowstring twanged. An arrow flashed past Lod and hissed into Lila. She grunted and collapsed onto furs someone in her family must have used as a bed.
Something hot washed through Lod’s brain. He turned like a beast as a red haze swam before his eyes.
“Drop the axe!” the archer shouted, as he fitted another arrow to his string.
Three warriors stalked around the kitchen table. Two hefted shields and clutched short swords. One spread a capture net, ready to hurl it. The archer stood in the back by the door
way.
“Drop the axe or I’ll shoot you next!” the archer shouted.
Lod squeezed his war-hatchet so the muscles writhed on his forearms.
“He doubts your skill,” the net-handler jeered the archer.
“Shoot him in the thigh,” a swordsman suggested. “This one ought to make a good pit slave.”
With his eyes like feral lights, Lod twisted to one side. An arrow hissed past him. He sprang like a leopard and crashed upon the nearest shield. Sword-iron grazed his side, but he took down that raider. Then he lunged low across the floor and swept the hatchet in a vicious arc. A shinbone cracked, and the second swordsman went down screaming. As Lod scrambled to his feet, the net swished in flight. The pellets that weighted the net’s edge clipped his head, but the net itself flew past. Lod buried his hatchet in the net-thrower’s skull.
“You wretch!” the archer shouted, fear shining in his eyes.
Lod ripped the hatchet free and advanced like incarnate vengeance.
The archer fumbled his third arrow, finally stringing it. It was too late. Lod flung his weapon so it crunched into the archer’s face. The man crumpled in the doorway.
Lod whirled because he heard leather scrape against the floor planks. Lod reached the crawling warrior’s fallen weapon first, and stabbed him. Then he stabbed the other swordsman who clutched his broken shinbone.
“Lod,” Lila whispered. Her eyes were wide and staring. The arrow in her chest quivered at each breath.
The sword fell from Lod’s grasp so it hit the floor with a clunk. He knelt beside Lila and cradled her head.
“It hurts,” she whispered.
Lod’s calloused fingers stroked her cheek.
“…Lod,” she said. “Lod, I—” Her lips quivered. Then she sighed, all the air leaving her lungs. Her body became slack.
Lod was only vaguely aware that the fire on the roof, the scorching heat, singed the hairs on his arms. He picked the talender from her hair. He sniffed it and carefully set it aside. Slowly, he wrapped the rugs around Lila. Then he picked up the talender, staring at it.
The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6) Page 8
