The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Astrology is repugnant to Elohim,” said Lod.

  Naram-Sin blinked in surprise. Then the warlord’s stern features hardened. “I am not in the habit of accepting rebukes from former slaves. Like that—” he rapped the table “—and my guard will enter and take you outside for a whipping. Do I make myself clear?”

  Lod had powerful shoulders, a thick chest and gaunt features like a starved wolf. His white hair was thick and tangled, but it was his smoldering blue eyes that fixed one’s attention. Volcanic passions seethed there, fierce certainties that refused to buckle to a foreign will. Perhaps there was a hint of madness as well. Several months ago, he had escaped hunters of Shiva, sent by the god there in retribution for his slaying of Manus Farstrider. Lod had been heading north ever since.

  Lod now focused on Naram-Sin. The warlord scowled, although he momentarily glanced away, as if finding Lod’s gaze too forbidding. The warlord opened his mouth, perhaps to summon his guards.

  “…I hear your words,” Lod rumbled.

  “You’d better do more than hear,” warned Naram-Sin.

  Lod laughed harshly. “You’re sending us into a den of murderers, hoping to achieve miracles through our valor. Then you expect us to act like cowering weaklings who bend before a rebuke.”

  Naram-Sin closed his mouth as he examined Lod. “You’re an unusual slave.”

  “Some of Shamgar once put a collar on my neck,” said Lod, bristling. “I killed them, and now I’m free, a slave no more.”

  “I’m not sending you across the river to kill anyone,” Naram-Sin warned. “I want you to use your eyes and ears. One of my Kaldu said this Blood Moon is dedicated to Esus. According to his lore, Esus is the son of a bene elohim.”

  “First Born,” whispered Lod, and there was hatred in his voice.

  Hul glanced at him.

  Naram-Sin appeared not to have heard. The warlord studied his map. He now looked up and glanced at each warrior in turn. “Succeed and you will win gold and my favor. Decline this task… and earn my displeasure.”

  “I’ll go,” said Hul.

  Lod nodded slowly, a deep fire smoldering in his eyes.

  “Excellent,” said Naram-Sin. “Now step closer and attend my words. I want you to understand exactly what I’m hunting for….”

  -1-

  Lod crashed through the primeval forest. The immense trunks around him were hoary with age and gargantuan size. He’d never seen trees like this, never felt so dwarfed, so smothered by greenery. Thick vines looped everywhere. Incredible flowers bloomed in a riot of colors.

  It was midday. Sunlight filtered through the canopy. In places, golden rays looked like taut zither strings. There was a flash of a fox’s tail. A gaudily-plumed bird made a raucous cry. The Zimrian encampment... Lod stopped and turned in a slow circle.

  He’d left the encampment as warriors and women prepared for tomorrow’s feast. He’d wanted a few moments of peace and quiet. Since his arrival half a week ago, more Zimrian warriors had arrived each day. There were Dire Wolf clan warriors, Cave Bears and Sea Eagle fighters. Hul could recognize each and had pointed out the differences to Lod.

  Hul had told a chieftain they were wanderers from the mountains. They had heard of the Blood Moon, of the glory of Esus. Lod had bit his tongue listening to that. He was ill-suited for this subterfuge. He should never have listened to Naram-Sin.

  Lod turned now, examining the trees, trying to figure out in which direction the encampment—

  Terrified screams erupted, startling Lod. The thick foliage muffled the sounds, but there was no mistaking the horror to them.

  Lod bounded through the forest, batting against leaves, bending branches. More screams sounded—women! They were near. Then an animal bellowed. The beast sounded big, and hurt. Seconds later, a man, a warrior maybe, roared with pain.

  Moments later, Lod burst through a screen of leaves and into a forest clearing. Half a dozen Zimrian maidens fled. They wore furs, and each had tanned legs, thin arms and long blonde or red hair. Each seemed to be young, no older than seventeen summers. Many had flowers in their hair. They ran from a huge, ox-like beast, a bovine monster with a mighty spread of horns and shaggy hair. It was a great forest bull, cousin to the wild aurochs of the plains. Here they were known as thags. The thag had red-rimmed eyes and breathed heavily. A spear was lodged in its side. Blood stained its shaggy coat. As Lod took in the grim scene, the thag charged a Zimrian warrior, a staggering tribesman with blood pumping out of his side. Had the thag gored him once already?

  Before Lod could help, the thag reached the warrior. With a sweep of its horns, the bull tossed the man into the air. The warrior landed with a sick thud, grunting. Then the beast began to trample him.

  Perhaps at the same moment, Lod and the thag became aware of another person. As the maidens fled screaming, nearing the relative safety of the forest, both Lod and beast noticed another maid, a tall woman wearing linen instead of furs. Long blonde hair cascaded down her back. She had ice-blue eyes and a face to marshal a horde of forest warriors to do her bidding. She wore a golden belt around her slender waist. She stared at the thag. There didn’t appear to be any fear on her wonderful features. Instead, there was sadness, mingled perhaps with bitterness.

  The thag snorted as blood trickled from its great wet nostrils. The spear had lodged deeply into its side, surely cast earlier by the mangled warrior beneath the bull’s hooves. The bull lowered its massive head. He pawed the dirt, snorted once more and his tail lifted straight up. He broke into a trot, aimed at the maid.

  Lod shouted, and he, too, charged.

  The woman mustn’t have heard him, for her eyes remained on the thag. Her eyes flashed. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was bitterness. She stood motionless, although the edges of her fine linen gown fluttered in a small breath of wind.

  “Get ready to dodge it!” Lod shouted.

  The woman glanced at him. Her eyes, something in them ignited Lod’s heart. He redoubled his sprint. If he’d been wearing his sword, he would have drawn it. He had a knife, but it would prove useless against such a magnificent and muscled bull as thundered at the woman.

  The thag bleed profusely. Blood flowed from its nostrils. Madness glared from its small, red-rimmed eyes. It bellowed, spraying bloody salvia, dotting the grass red.

  Then Lod jumped before it, and perhaps he surprised the beast. It had concentrated solely upon the enraging maiden with her fluttering linen dress. Lod jumped before the beast and he grabbed the horns. With effortless strength, however, the thag carried Lod along. Then Lod’s heels hit the dirt, plowing twin furrows. Unfortunately, that barely slowed the bull’s charge. Lod twisted savagely, suddenly and by surprise. As his heels plowed in the dirt, Lod roared and his iron-like muscles writhed with supreme effort. He was strong, and he applied tremendous force against the horns. That twisted the bull’s neck and jammed one of the long horns into the dirt.

  The thag bellowed as the horn plowed harder and deeper into the soil, spraying grass clods. That jamming twisted the beast’s neck even more. There was a loud crack as the dense forehead smashed against the ground. The bull tumbled as Lod leapt clear. Dust billowed. Grass divots rained everywhere.

  Then Lod found himself on his back, panting, wondering what had happened. He raised his head.

  The thag lay on its back, several feet before the unmoving woman. The great beast feebly kicked its legs. Then it sagged as air kept leaving its dying body. The huge shaggy body deflated, and then the thag lay utterly still, dead from a snapped neck.

  Lod blinked in surprise. Slowly, gingerly, he climbed to his feet, testing his fingers, his wrists, knees, hips, trying to determine if anything was broken. The size of the thag—the throw could have easily shattered many bones, could have broken his body if the beast had landed on him. The grace of Elohim had protected him.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  Lod’s neck was sore, and his right thigh throbbed. Otherwise, he appeared to be unhurt. A glan
ce at the fallen, trampled warrior showed Lod that the man was dead. There was no helping the brave warrior. Clearly, the man must have tried to protect the women. The other maidens, they had all escaped. He was alone with this beautiful, Zimrian maiden.

  “What you did,” the woman said, “that was incredible. You have the strength of Jarn Shield-Breaker. With your bare hands, you slew a maddened thag.”

  Lod recognized the name of the Dire Wolf Clan chieftain. He closed his eyes. He felt dazed, numb, and tried to collect his thoughts.

  Fingers touched his forearm. Lod’s eyes snapped open.

  The woman withdrew her hand from his arm. She was beautiful, and her long, linen gown fluttered in the soft breeze. The gauzy substance had attracted the thag, the charging beast.

  “Why did you just stand there?” Lod asked. “The thag would have killed you.”

  The sadness returned to the woman’s pale features. “You should hurry elsewhere,” she said. “If my brother finds you alone with me….” She turned away, and she hugged herself.

  Lod reached out and put his hand around her slender arm.

  She looked up in wonder. “You don’t dare touch me,” she whispered. “It is your death to do so.”

  “Why didn’t you run?” he asked, continuing to grip her arm.

  “If you value your life, you must release me at once and run away. I am to be betrothed to Jarn Shield-Breaker. He is a vengeful warrior, a brute and a savage. As strong as you are, you cannot defeat one with Esus’s blood.”

  “Is this Jarn stronger than a thag?” asked Lod.

  “Go, please,” she said softly. “A hero who can slay an Esus-maddened thag two days before the Blood Moon should not face torture and a possible hanging in the Esus Tree.”

  Her beauty and her sadness, that Lod was beginning to realize bordered on hopelessness, stirred him deeply. Instead of releasing her, he gripped her other arm, too. He gazed into her eyes.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mari,” she whispered.

  “Who were those maidens?”

  “My bridesmaids-to-be,” she said, “each the daughter of a powerful warrior.” The sad smile returned. “My father was the chieftain of the Dire Wolf Clan before he died. He bore the sword of Esus. My brother should have taken the sword. Instead, Jarn Shield-Breaker took it. He offered to fight Amalaric for the right to bear it, but Amalaric was afraid and freely gave up the sword.”

  “Amalaric is your brother?” asked Lod.

  “My brother is tall and strong,” Mari said, “but he lacks your courage. If I were a man, I would have fought Jarn Shield-Breaker. Though Jarn has the blood of Esus—”

  “This Jarn is a Nephilim?” Lod asked.

  “He is shorter than you are, and he is hairy like a beast, shaggy like the dead thag. Jarn’s shoulders are immense and his bones are like iron. He is older and fatter than he used to be, but his hands can break warriors and his blows fall harder than a great sloth’s claws. So you must run away. I won’t tell them about you. I won’t tell them you touched me.”

  “Why did you stand there?” he asked. “Do you want to die?”

  She took a deep breath. “I hate Jarn Shield-Breaker. He is a great grunting pig. Yes, death is preferable to being his wife. The Blood Moon rises soon. The forest animals become strange and moody because of it. The thag should never have trotted into our clearing. I thought perhaps that as Jarn is Esus’s great grandson, that our god had granted me mercy.”

  “Instead of accepting death,” said Lod, “you should flee Zimri.”

  “No,” Mari whispered. “I am still my father’s daughter. He was the chieftain of the Dire Wolf Clan. If my brother lacks courage, I do not. Can a woman not be as brave as a man?”

  “You stood without flinching,” Lod said. “You are very brave. You are also very sad. Do you want me to challenge Jarn Shield-Breaker for you, to break his neck as I did the thag’s?”

  Mari’s eyes grew round. “You are a hero, but you are a foreigner. My brother would have his warriors spear you like a beast if you tried to challenge Jarn. Amalaric wants power. As his sister, I must help him, even pacifying Jarn for him. Please, release me and save yourself.”

  “I am Lod.”

  “Lod…” Mari said, as if tasting the word. She smiled, and she said, “Remember me. I’ll never forget you.” Mari cocked her head. “I hear warriors coming. Please, Lod, save yourself.”

  He stared into her eyes.

  She leaned forward and lightly brushed her lips against his. “Go,” she whispered.

  Lod glanced over his shoulder. He heard the warriors, too.

  “Please,” she said. “You will shame me otherwise.”

  Lod released her. “Which way is the encampment?” he asked thickly.

  Mari pointed the way.

  Then, before any warriors appeared, Lod trotted for the forest in the direction he needed to go.

  -2-

  Drunken Zimrian tribesmen pounded the long-tables with their fists. The forest warriors chanted.

  They met under the woven boughs of the Esus trees, two nights before the dreaded rising of the Blood Moon. Fire-pits crackled with flame. Over many pits, half-carved boar carcasses dripped with fat, the greasy drops sizzling in the fire. On the long-tables before the warriors, gravy-soaked trenchers held gnawed bones, pieces of gristle and pig-fat spit from numbed lips. Large wooden cups beside the trenchers sloshed with beer and honeyed mead as the warriors continued to pound the oaken tables.

  The tallest Zimrian warrior led a cloaked and heavily-veiled woman toward Jarn Shield-Breaker. In the sea of chanting, the cloaked woman walked with stately grace.

  Jarn was very drunk and swayed on his stool at the head of the first long-table. Jarn had massive shoulders and immense muscles, although he was shorter than most of the warriors present. He had a thick, squat neck and a thick belly. He was also covered with hair like one of Esus’s half-animal sons. It was said that Jarn’s great grandmother had slept with Esus during a Blood Moon, and therefore Jarn claimed descent from the god of the forest. Jarn had coarse features, bleary eyes and a great beard to match his hairy body. A golden broach set with a large Vendhyan ruby held a looted purple cloak in place.

  Jarn shouted, “Amalaric, my brother-to-be!”

  A roar of approval rose from the seated warriors. The long-table pounding increased in tempo and fury. Many cups tumbled, spilling beer and honeyed mead across the oaken surfaces.

  The tall warrior leading the cloaked and heavily-veiled woman glanced at the assembled throng. He was Amalaric, and he was tall, big-boned and beardless, as handsome as Jarn was coarse. Amalaric led his sister Mari toward Jarn. She was the only woman tonight under the boughs of the Esus trees.

  As befitted one with godly blood, Jarn was iron-willed and merciless. Amalaric felt faint whenever he thought about challenging Jarn to a death-match for the chieftainship. His friends had told him he was faster than Jarn was. He was like a young thag bull. Jarn was like a spent bear, grown slovenly from too much meat, too much honey and gorged by success.

  Amalaric glanced at his sister’s hands, which she held before her, as a maiden should do. They were tightly clenched, the knuckles white. He knew she loathed Jarn, but she stood straight, her shoulders square. By the angle of her veils, she held her chin up, meeting fate with unflinching courage.

  Amalaric hid his smile. He could always appeal to Mari’s courage. For himself, he preferred guile. He would rule the Dire Wolf Clan… in time. Under normal tribal ways, Jarn and he should be bitter enemies. Yet how could that help him by having an unbeatable foe? No, with Mari as bait, he was making a friend out of a foe. It was so much easier planting a knife in a trusting warrior’s back than facing a champion sword-to-sword. Besides, soon the marshalling forest clans would cross the Hiddekel River, ravaging their way across Kish. Jarn Shield-Breaker would likely lead the great throng, and Amalaric would be one of his chosen companions. As brother-in-law to a Great Chieftain, Amalaric wo
uld become one of the battle-chanters. While in Kish and on the war-trail, there would surely be opportunities to ensure Jarn’s death.

  Jarn Shield-Breaker held up a large hand, the knuckles made prominent by the curly kinks of hair sprouting around them.

  The long-table pounding and the chants ceased. The silence was deafening, filled with expectation.

  “Jarn Shield-Breaker,” Amalaric said. “Let me present my sister to you.” He stepped beside Mari and deftly threw back the heavy veils.

  Mari’s eyes might have been puffy, but she was still as lovely as ever. She smiled, although it seemed filled with pain. She held herself very straight.

  Warriors drunkenly blinked at her beauty. A few drooled. Several muttered hot oaths and glanced at Jarn, envying him, perhaps even wishing to kill him for the chance to have Amalaric’s sister for a wife.

  One man at a long-table far in the back brooded. It was Lod. He had only sipped his mead tonight. His features were like a mask.

  At the head of the first long-table, where shaggy hounds gnawed on bones around him, Jarn Shield-Breaker grunted. He heaved himself unsteadily to his feet. He took three lurching steps toward Mari. He was shorter than she was by an inch, and he seemed like some malign beast, powerful, shuffling and snorting, with shoulders like a great ape of the Hanun Mountains.

  “Wonderful,” Jarn breathed.

  The alcoholic fume almost made Amalaric wince. Jarn had breath like a rutting boar. He noticed that Mari hadn’t moved. His sister even managed the faintest smile for Jarn. She was a good girl. And for a moment, Amalaric felt ashamed that he was purchasing Jarn’s good graces through his sister’s agony. Then, he told himself that was foolish. A cunning man laid poison for a mighty beast. He didn’t risk his precious skin by battling it toe-to-toe.

  Jarn turned to Amalaric. “This is the greatest prize of our clan.” He lifted a hairy paw of a hand, touching Mari’s chin.