There had been a terrible argument between father and son that day. It had enraged Ut and it had greatly terrified him. He’d fled Shamgar, afraid of how his father would punish him for breaking an edict of Gog concerning the importation of crocodiles into the city. His father was a son of Dagon. Dagon was a son of Gog, the First Born of a bene elohim. Ut’s father, Chemosh the Shaman, had a unique power that the masses of humanity called an accursed gift. Ut had no such gift. The power of his blood was too weakly diluted for that. He’d spent several years among the jungle cannibals of Lemuria. It was there he’d contracted leprosy.
Ut blamed Lod and Chemosh for the leprosy and he hated them both because of it. Now he had a chance to capture Lod.
Ut adjusted his mask as he turned toward the woman. Once, he would have tasted the woman’s fear. That taste had fled with the loss of his nose. Ut snapped his teeth. The hyenas in the tent whined and quickly flattened onto their bellies. The woman’s eyes went wide with fear and she paled.
Ut pondered her fate. She held a cord between her hands as if she thought to use it against him. What a pathetic creature. She seemed to think herself a match for one of the blood. That smacked too much of Lod-like thinking.
Ut’s eyes narrowed.
Lod had journeyed with the woman. Yes, hadn’t Lod approached the tree where they’d captured her? Obviously, Lod had feelings for her. She was a pretty little thing, wasn’t she?
Hmmm….
Ut scratched at the mummy-cloth next to his skin. The nobles of Lemuria wrapped their dead in such cloth. It protected his leprous skin and slowed the rate of its decay. Ut scratched himself as he studied the woman.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, stretching the cord between her hands.
Despite his leprosy, Ut moved quickly. He snatched the cord and twisted it out of her grasp. Then he gripped one of her wrists.
She cried out as he ground her wrist bones together. In seeming desperation, she lunged close and shot her right knee at him. Ut let her knee connect with a dull thump. Leprosy had long ago made him a eunuch. Ut smiled down at her, revealing big square teeth.
She cried out again, shrinking back from him. He let her go, and she sprawled onto the tented floor.
There was time to break her later. Yes, he would make her touch his skin. He would force her to do things….
First, however, it was time to pay back Lod in the harsh coin of irony. He’d heard of Lod’s mania, his delusions of grandeur. The former rat bait aspired to be a Seraph, to serve him who those of the blood did not name. Seraphs had noble conceptions, foolish conceits. That would be Lod’s weakness. He would trap Lod using this weakness.
-4-
Lod’s blue eyes snapped open as a terrible sense of urgency filled him. Daylight poured through the thick canopy of leaves. A raccoon high up in the branches peered down at him. With a hind leg, the masked creature scratched its side.
Lod listened to the forest sounds. Water gurgled through the slimy rocks where he’d hidden. There! He heard the faint scrape of sandal-leather against a rock. It’s what had woken him, and the sound came from higher up. He exploded into action, drawing his sword and bounding onto a higher boulder. He might have slipped on slimy stone, but his toes gripped the rock as he leaped. He came face to face with—
“Keros!” shouted Lod.
The mountain warrior of Shur grinned at him. Keros was dark-haired and well-muscled, a rangy young warrior with rugged features. He wore deerskin breeches and sandals. The last time Lod had seen him Keros had fallen with an arrow in his shoulder, tumbling down a long slope. Most of the bruises on Keros’s face were purple, testament to the fall.
Keros winced as Lod gripped his shoulders.
“Easy, my friend,” Keros said. “The arrow-wound is still painful.”
Lod let go. “I—we thought you were dead or captured.”
“I would have been,” Keros said. “But Rovian warriors rescued me before the hyenas could sniff out my location.”
“You’d better explain that,” said Lod.
Lod, Keros and Tamar had begun their journey in Shamgar, Keros having rescued Lod from the Catacombs of Gog. Together, the three had fled from the pirate city, heading east into the deepest swamps that surrounded Shamgar. The combined bogs, marshes and wetlands were known as Nebo Swamp, as stone-age Nebo tribes infested the area. The Hanun Mountains fed the Hanun River that supplied the swamp with the majority of its moisture. The trio had eventually left the swamp and traveled by rat-boat upriver until they’d reached white-water rapids. From there, they’d trekked across the uplands south of the Hanun Mountains. After a week of climbing, they’d descended into the Great Forest of Rovian, named after the Rovian clans.
The Rovians hunted the territories through which Lod, Keros and Tamar had traveled. The Rovians were primitives similar to the Nebo, although of a higher artistic culture and with a greater emphasis on songs, chants and heroic lays. The Nebo used flint knives, hatchets and blow-darts, while the Rovians practiced archery. They were also known for their feather costumes and grass-woven lariats. The greatest difference between the Nebo and Rovians were their feelings concerning the bene elohim and First Born like Gog. Many Nebo worshiped Gog and traveled to Shamgar to the Oracle. Many Rovians still remembered Elohim, although animistic rituals had begun to abound throughout the last two generations.
Keros squatted on his heels as water gushed over nearby rocks and boulders. “I’ve learned that the Nephilim have burned villages and raped Rovian women. Messengers went out from them, and several war parties gathered. One of those parties helped me. From what I’ve heard, it sounds like the Nephilim slew most of the Rovians who dared face them. The war-chief of a band asked me what I thought. I told him the Nephilim are here to capture the Behemoth.”
“What did you say exactly?” asked Lod.
“Did I do wrong?” asked Keros.
Lod thought about it. He shook his head. “No. You’re here, you’re alive.”
“Thanks to the Rovians,” said Keros. “They carried me from where I’d landed. I was too stunned to travel. I heard the hyenas as they hunted for me, and I heard several Rovians mutter about evil spells. I told them the Nephilim are beastmasters and have power over chosen animals.”
“Have these Rovians left the area?” asked Lod.
“No. They’re hiding from the Nephilim, or staying away at least from the encampment. One of the warriors told me about a white-haired man he’d seen. I knew he meant you. The warrior helped me track your trail, and I remembered what you told me before about using boulders and streams to hide from Nephilim-controlled beasts.” Keros glanced around. “Where’s Tamar?”
In a few terse words, Lod told Keros what had happened last night.
Keros’s face darkened as the anger grew in his eyes. “We have to rescue her.”
“Yes.”
With his good arm, Keros smote his thigh. “We have to hurry back to the Rovians. They’ve had enough of Nephilim and their beasts. You have to convince them to help us.”
“How many warriors are there?”
“Seven.”
Lod grunted as he stood up. Counting Keros and him that made nine. Nine warriors against Ut of the Cave Hyenas and the reavers he’d seen last night.
“Have these Rovians lost any warriors yet?” asked Lod.
Keros shook his head.
“Have they killed any of Shamgar?” Lod asked.
“Not that I’ve heard about.”
“They’re a cautious war party,” said Lod.
“They saved me.”
“And for that I thank Elohim,” said Lod. “Yes. That took courage, but they seem to lack the fire to close in for the kill.”
“You have to inspire them,” said Keros. “You have to breathe courage into their hearts.”
Lod thought about Tamar, how she was a captive of Ut. Long ago, the half-Nephilim beastmaster had set a crocodile on him, turning it into a wagering event, a so-called sporting event
in the canals. Lod had survived the race, only to have Ut push him back into the canal where the crocodile waited. It was the closest Lod had come in his youth to dying as rat bait. Lod squinted in remembrance. Before the race, Ut had stepped on his back, pressing down with his weight.
“The warriors won’t stay here for long,” Keros said.
“No,” said Lod, his nostrils expanding. “So you’d better lead me to them.”
***
With his tigerish gait and stark muscles, Lod followed Keros over a dead tree trunk, all its bark long ago worn off. Lod matched Keros step for step, appreciating the mountain warrior’s woodcraft, how Keros moved so as not to leave a trail. Unfortunately, Lod had gone too long without food. The smell of roasted pork wafted on the air, the scent coming from distant campfires, making his belly rumble.
Keros spun around on the trunk. He had the balance of a fox and was noiseless in his crouched manner. “Gnaw on this,” he said, digging in his pouch.
Lod grunted thanks as his mouth watered. He was ravenous, and he gnawed on a hunk of deer jerky, given Keros by the Rovians.
Keros trekked away from the slimy rocks where Lod had slept and away from the stream with its mossy banks. The banks were much different from Shamgar’s concrete shores, just as the clear stream was different from a canal’s garbage-strewn water.
Once the slimy rocks were out of sight, Keros began trekking uphill. Later, Keros hopped from a smooth rock, to a hard-packed piece of ground and then carefully stepped over newly fallen leaves. Keros avoided bushes, thorny weeds or tuffs of grass. He backtracked twice and turned several leaves over that Lod had caused to flip onto their un-weathered side. Keros studiously avoided the rays of sunlight that slashed into this gloomy underworld. The mighty trees spread their branches, holding millions of leaves that shielded the realm from the blistering sun. There were broad leaves and narrow leaves, long ones and short ones. There were a few giant ferns and many dangling vines. Insects buzzed and hidden birds shrieked, and once something snapped a branch.
Keros froze. Lod followed his example. A moment later, an elk stepped into view. On sight of them, the beast leaped into dense brush. A branch crackled, so did another. Then all was silent, until the insects began buzzing once more.
Keros crept softly, and the soon the stream was in view again, although now quite far below them. Keros hesitated. Lod knew the lad had sharper hearing then he did. Keros eased to a amber bush and carefully peered through it.
Nothing happened that Lod could detect. No one appeared and Lod heard nothing different. Lod peered through the bush, past trees, down the slope and across the stream. He froze. A Nebo tracker couched there, studying the water. The primitive wore a breechcloth. He had gnarled, apish arms, a low forehead, and he crouched for so long that he almost seemed like a statue.
“I waded along the stream last night,” whispered Lod.
Keros nodded. “The Nebo must be deciding whether you overturned pebbles in the stream.”
The Nebo rose and glanced right and left.
Lod wrapped his fingers around his dagger-hilt. He gathered himself to sprint downhill and slaughter the primitive.
Just before Lod shot downhill, the Nebo waved his arm. The tension eased from Lod’s thighs as he released the hilt. Near the stream, bareback slaves stumbled into view. They carried a wooden platform on their shoulders. Someone had fitted two posts onto the platform, crossing the posts like an X.
Lod stiffened and Keros hissed with rage.
Tamar hung from the cross. Thongs secured her wrists and ankles. Worse, someone had ripped the front of her garment, exposing the smooth skin of her breasts.
A vein in Lod’s temple began to pulse.
Ut in his mammoth-fur coat appeared. He accepted a red speaking-horn from a man. Ut lifted the speaking horn and in a loud voice shouted, “Lod! Surrender or Tamar dies in agony. You have a day to walk into our camp and save her life. Dagon shall find you in the end. So spare your woman and save your conscience a lifetime of regret.”
While coughing, Ut lowered the speaking horn. He gave it to a handler. Another man gave him a silver cup. Ut sipped from it, tilted his head and gurgled. Ut wore a broad-brimmed hat, perhaps to protect him from the sun. More rays shined down there by the stream than up on the hill where Lod hid. The hat hid Ut’s face and hid the black mask. After handing back the cup, Ut lifted the speaking horn again. He aimed it in another direction, repeating the offer.
The Nebo tracker crept along the mossy bank, studying the stream, by Keros’s thinking gazing at each stone on the bottom.
Sweaty slaves hefted the platform onto their shoulders. It caused Tamar to glance about in alarm. Behind the platform followed reavers, over a dozen of them, their curved scabbards clattering against resting bucklers. They wore boots, although a few of the reavers went barefoot. Many of the sea pirates wore toughened leather jerkins and red leather helmets with the laces dangling below their short beards. Ut walked with his hyenas. Handlers brought up the rear.
As much as he hated and wished every one of the men from Shamgar dead, Lod didn’t look directly at them. Those of the blood had strange powers. Many warriors also had a keen sense about such things. The hyenas would, too.
“We’d better hurry and find these Rovians,” Lod whispered.
“Agreed,” said Keros, his face mottled with anger. “Follow me.”
***
Lod felt as if he’d returned to the rat sheds of his youth. That’s where rat hunters had locked their bait for the night, tossing in scraps through a slot in the door. Some bait used to crouch in a circle, whispering tales or weeping together. They’d spoken to each other to strengthen their courage for the horrors of the canals the next morning.
Lod presently sat on a stone, part of a circle of Rovian warriors. They crouched as the bait in the shed used to. These wiry-tough warriors eyed him as hounds would a new dog brought into camp. Most wore buckskins and leather moccasins. They clutched bows and had flint-tipped arrows.
A scattering of jugs, leather bags, twine and fur capes lay in mass. They sat in the shade of a giant tree. They didn’t make a fire so the smoke wouldn’t give them away. They ate cold jerky and biscuits.
The Rovian warriors feared the reavers of Shamgar. Lod had listened, and from them he’d learned that a great company marched through the forest toward the Sea of Nur. Ut’s party was the vanguard of that company. Hyenas, a cave bear and eight-foot orns obeyed the invaders. Along the way, those of Shamgar had destroyed Rovian villages, mostly of the Hormagaunt and Eagle clans. The reavers with iron scimitars had impaled many of the captured warriors. Others they’d shoved into cages, captives of one called Dagon.
As he listened, Lod heard the fear in these warriors’ voices.
One among the seven Rovians possessed courage, their war-chief. Like the others, Eber of the Rovians had nut-brown skin and sinewy muscles. Unlike them, he bore terrible scars on his face and wore a leopard-spotted breechcloth instead of buckskins. He also had a leopard-claw necklace. Lod knew enough about the Rovians to know that a warrior only wore such articles if he had slain the beast himself. The leopard-claw necklace marked this warrior as a mighty hunter. His facial scars were a testament to the terrible fight it had taken winning the claws. Eber’s left eye was egg-white and blind. The left half of his face and mouth had been horribly mangled. It exposed several teeth in a permanently fierce smile. Eber’s other difference was a short sword belted around his waist, an iron weapon.
“Nephilim don’t bargain with those they consider to be cattle,” Lod was saying “They take as please. You’ve witnessed that or heard from Hormagaunt messengers what the Nephilim have done in your forest. Now you have a chance to take from them. They’ve hurt you. Now hurt them.”
The Rovian warriors eyed Lod with his massive muscles. He dwarfed each of them, and his countenance seemed to awe them. Yet they hesitated.
“I want to hurt them,” said Eber. He spoke slowly, using the good half of h
is mouth. The other Rovians watched their war-chief, carefully listening to his words. “But the Nephilim are strong, and they control awful beasts that none dare face.”
“The hyenas—” Keros began to say.
Eber held up a weathered hand. “The cave hyenas are wicked creatures and loathsome. But I speak of a great and terrible beast with the likeness of a bear. This great bear is as a giant is to a man, a monster worthy of the Behemoth.”
“Gog alters beasts,” said Lod.
“Keros told us that you are from the First Born’s wicked city,” said Eber.
Lod’s blue eyes blazed. “Yes! Once I wore a rope around my neck, bidden to dive into the oily waters of the canals and lay as still as death. My task was to lure the giant rats into range of my owner’s trident. You see the scars on my body. Most were won from the claws and teeth of goat-sized rats. Yet neither claws, nor teeth, nor raging fevers could kill me.” Lod gave a snarl of a smile. “I became bestial there. I sank into savagery, but Elohim saved me.”
“How?” whispered Eber.
“Toward the end of my rat-bait days,” said Lod, “a vision descended upon me in the darkness of my shed, as chains bound my feet. How can I describe my fierce joy? My heart sang as a bright light filled my eyes. In my vision, I bore a sword like lightning, hewing Defenders and Enforcers alike. I shattered bones and broke teeth, and with a torch, I burned Shamgar to its swampy foundations. Upon waking, I almost howled in ecstasy. Those who tried to turn me into an animal I would destroy. My day came several weeks later. That was many years ago. I slew my owner and escaped into the canals. I then slew those sent to hunt and impale me.”
The Rovian warriors watched as if viewing a raging thunderstorm speaking words.
Lod gave a throaty laugh. “The message of my vision was simple. I was to kill those of the blood. In later years, I swore to Elohim if he would free me from the bondage of the slave oar that I would hunt the world for Nephilim and slay them.” Lod stood, studying each warrior in turn before staring at Eber. “You say these Gog-lovers have brought a great beast into the forest. Then I say we gather your warriors and hunt the seas reavers from behind every tree. When they lie rotting, we will close in and slay the Nephilim and his great beast.”
Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5) Page 5
