Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  The two slaves shrank back, moving out of his path.

  Tamar lifted her chin, even though her breasts were exposed and wrists secured. She didn’t like the determination in his ugly face.

  “Cut me loose,” she said.

  The Nebo creaked onto the platform. He was shorter than she was, but his arms were thicker and long. He twined blunt fingers in her hair, forcing back her head. In a harsh whisper he said, “You give me trouble, I kill you. Understand?”

  An old arrow scar marred his throat, probably the reason for his odd voice.

  “Understand?” he said.

  “Do you hear those cries?” Tamar said, refusing to cower. “I know you do. Lod will kill you if you hurt me.”

  The Nebo snarled like a beast and banged the back of her head against the cross. “You are Dagon’s chattel. I take you to him.”

  “No,” she whispered, the back of her head throbbing.

  The Nebo banged her head again.

  “Stop,” Tamar said.

  “Do you understand?”

  She wanted to spit in his face, but this one would hurt her. She had to trick him. “I understand,” she said.

  He gave her a sharp glance. Then he slipped a noose around her throat, tightening it so she could hardly breathe. He lifted his hatchet, thunking it into the wood, severing a bond. Her arm dropped like a rock. When the last bond fell away, she tried to jerk the rope out of his hands and run. He lifted the hatchet and banged her hard with the flat of it.

  “Stupid, girl,” he growled. “You’re Dagon’s chattel.”

  He jerked the leash, and she stumbled after him, dazed, half-choking, fighting back the tears that threatened to tumble from her eyes. She had caused the death of two reavers yesterday. She could win free from this Nebo. Remembering Vidar from the canals—she knew what she had to.

  -6-

  Outside the tent, a strident horn blared. Nyla the Knife rolled bleary-eyed off her pallet. Fatigue plagued her, made her mind dull. The horn sounded again, an impatient blast. Nyla’s hands shook as she pulled out a mouse-skin of crinkly kanda leaves. She needed her wits, not the accumulated fatigue of weeks of exhausting travel.

  She wet a fingertip, lifting a dry kanda leaf from her tiny supply. She rubbed her gums with the black leaf, her saliva stirring the drug. She felt the sting in her mind. It woke her, and it crushed a building yawn. She slithered her voluptuous body into tight black leathers, binding the laces shut in front. She had violet eyes of startling power and an exotic face. She combed her black hair tightly, tying it with a string of calf-leather. Lastly, she pushed her feet into supple black boots and belted on the scabbards of matching daggers—her fangs.

  From within in the tent, Sheba snarled.

  Nyla knelt and put a restraining hand on Sheba’s head. The huge she-leopard felt protective of her amidst the camp’s menagerie of beasts. From outside came shouts, snarls and the whacks of builders hammering wood. Her leopard wore a jeweled collar, with a fine chain of silver securing her to a short post driven into the ground.

  “I’ll be fine,” Nyla said. “Don’t worry.”

  Sheba’s tail-tip twitched.

  Nyla nodded in agreement. Everything wasn’t going to be fine. Everything was quite terrible. She still wondered how she’d come to be involved in this business. She’d seen Dagon and his reavers slaughtering the small natives and hanging them from gibbets. Didn’t the Nephilim have any sense of proportion?

  Why had Gog chosen her to carry the theltocarna? She kept wondering about that. Did Gog distrust his son? Dagon had built the expedition around shaggy-coated beastmasters. They were a rough lot, brutal half-Nephilim of the battlefield. All wore long, mammoth-fur coats, as if that proved their might. All affected shaggy beards and acted the part of surly bears. They were violent men who had taken on the characteristics of their beasts. Most of them were of the third or fourth generation. Nyla, who had spent more time among humans, understood the horror which men and women held Dagon’s beastmasters. The coarse-faced brutes often devoured raw meat, committed gross acts without thought to convention—as would beasts of the field. They often engaged in depraved practices shocking even to the most hardened of Shamgar.

  Nyla’s head darted up. She heard a shuffle outside. Someone approached. The person was huge, although not as huge as Dagon was. His son Chemosh was big. Nyla sniffed. Yes, Chemosh came. His bruin-like odor preceded him. Chemosh hated her because in the past she’d scorned his amorous advances.

  With one slim hand near a dagger, Nyla watched the flap. A huge shadow loomed before the tent. A knock sounded against the pole.

  “May I come in?” rumbled deep-voiced Chemosh.

  “Please enter,” said Nyla, trying to keep the wariness from her voice.

  The flap jerked back as Chemosh bowed his head and stepped within. He was a fork-bearded monster of a half-Nephilim with massive bones and immensely powerful muscles. He had shaggy dark hair held in place by a circuit of gold around his forehead. Like many of the blood, his face was much broader than a man’s face. The mammoth-fur coat seemed right for him. The fur was shaggy and well-combed. A human skull rested on his coat, hanging from thick iron links wound around his neck. From time to time, a ghostly eddy seemed to shift within the eye sockets.

  “I thought we might talk,” Chemosh said in a deep voice.

  Talk, Nyla told herself. She indicated a stool as she sat on her unmade pallet.

  As Chemosh sat down, Sheba glared at him. Chemosh chuckled. It was an unpleasant sound. He glanced at Sheba and then promptly ignored the leopard.

  “I do not inspire trust,” Chemosh rumbled. “But you do not need to fear me, assassin. At least, you do not need to fear me today.”

  Nyla nodded, hating his arrogance.

  Chemosh touched the bleached skull of his iron necklace. He touched the skull with a hand that could crush a man’s head. The fingers were thick and devoid of rings, and dark hairs sprouted from the knuckles. Each fingernail had been painted black.

  Nausea touched Nyla then. The faintest of screams sounded as if from a distant realm. It was a hopeless sound. She understood that the sound emanated from the skull.

  Skull magic, the stealing of human souls, it was a dark art. Few in Shamgar practiced it. Even Gog seldom attempted necromancy. Nyla knew that Chemosh had journeyed to far-off Poseidonis, to that grim isle of burning altars and human sacrifice. A different child of the bene elohim ruled there, the dark god of the Gibborim, the greatest practitioner of skull magic since the terrible war between the Shining Ones above and the bene elohim.

  It was a dangerous task to rip souls out of dying humans and shove them into a specially prepared skull. Nyla knew that much about necromancy. It was undoubtedly the reason for the many mangled corpses she’d witnessed while slinking through the Rovian Forest. The corpses had dangled from stakes, impaled, dying wretchedly and in extreme agony. A necromancer needed such agony. She understood that Chemosh had feasted on the carnage, had perhaps become bloated with soul-fueled power. Weren’t there hidden dangers in supping so plentifully, so quickly? A half-Nephilim could become drunk with death. It could unhinge him.

  “We travel to the Sea of Nur,” Chemosh was saying. “We go at Gog’s command to capture the mighty Behemoth. With the greatest of beasts in his train, Gog shall march invincibly to war, conquering the lands touching the Suttung Sea. We seek the Behemoth and I am fated to control the beast of beasts.”

  Nyla nodded. Not only was Chemosh bloated with power, but also with his own importance.

  “Dagon also seeks this Lod,” Chemosh said. “My father knows that Gog dearly wishes to relieve Lod of the tedium of existence. Dagon calls him a Seraph.” Chemosh pressed his fingers together. “I have heard others speak about Seraphs, although I have never met one. The human cattle seem to believe in them. As far as I can understand, a Seraph is supposed to be able to resist magic. By that, I take it to mean skull magic. Is that your understanding as well?”

 
“Why ask me?”

  With his pressed together fingers, Chemosh tapped his chin. “I believe you’ve had direct experience with this Lod.”

  “So has Ut,” Nyla said.

  “Ut!” said Chemosh, as if spitting the name. “Ut is a fool. He once fled to Lemuria.”

  Just as you once fled to Poseidonis, Nyla wanted to say. Instead, she said nothing, waiting.

  “Ut sought knowledge in the jungles of Lemuria,” Chemosh said in disgust. “Instead of knowledge, he became a cannibal, contracted leprosy and now wraps his rotting flesh like a mummy.”

  “Ut once hunted Lod through Shamgar’s swamps.”

  Chemosh chopped a hand through the air. “Years ago, you faced Lod. You faced him with an Enforcer and a necromancer in tow. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  Nyla nodded, her skin tingling at the memory.

  “You cornered Lod in a tavern,” Chemosh said. “Yet he escaped from Shamgar that day. That’s seems impossible to me. At least, it should have been impossible for mere rat bait. Lod was the so-called legend of the canals. He was a clever, quick lad. I don’t deny that. It’s this idea of him being a Seraph. Did he block magic in the canal-side tavern that dismal day so long ago?”

  Nyla didn’t want to rehash bitter memories, but she didn’t want to anger Chemosh needlessly. How best to explain this? She cleared her throat. “Humans think of the accursed gift as magic.”

  “An accursed gift,” Chemosh said with a laugh. “It is part of our celestial heritage. You lack that, however, don’t you?”

  Nyla restrained an impulse to whip out her daggers. Her control of Sheba was a hard-learned power, not the same as the gift he spoke about.

  Before she could retort, a horn blared outside.

  “Dagon summons us,” said Chemosh, looking up. “Well, assassin, what happened in the canal-side tavern with Lod? Tell me quickly.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Chemosh scowled. “I don’t believe in Seraphs. The very idea is preposterous. By what power is a Seraph able to block skull magic or what fools call an accursed gift?”

  “We failed to capture Lod that day,” she said.

  “Why did you fail?”

  Nyla stared Chemosh in the eyes. “Lod has a power. Whether you believe it, I know this to be true. Whether it is a Seraph ability, I cannot say. I have seen his power, however, and I have felt it.”

  “What is this power?” sneered Chemosh.

  Nyla hesitated before saying, “Lod is driven by a singular mania, a total belief in himself. He also believes that Elohim guides him.”

  “What?”

  Nyla shrugged. “Lod believes it, and so powerful is his mania that he drives others to maniacal acts. It happened to Ut with a crocodile in Shamgar, but this I think you know. It happened to the necromancer in the tavern. The necromancer wielded skull magic, but in the confusion and his hatred for Lod the spell went awry and burned into the crowd.”

  “What about the Enforcer?” Chemosh asked. “There was an Enforcer in the tavern that day.”

  “Lod clung to the Enforcer’s back like a rat, with a length of eel-skin rope wrapped around the Enforcer’s throat. It distracted the Enforcer long enough that Elonites rose from the tables and plunged their swords into him.”

  “Why didn’t you slay Lod? You’re supposed to be our god’s favorite killer.”

  “The necromancer’s spell had struck me. I could not.”

  Chemosh drummed thick fingers on top of his bleached skull. “Was there any evidence that Lod actually blocked spells?”

  “As a young man, he survived the tavern, escaped the canals and made it out of the swamps alive,” Nyla said. “More I do not know.”

  Chemosh grunted as he stood. “That will suffice for now. At the moment, Dagon summons us. It is unwise to make my father wait too long.”

  -7-

  Nyla nervously licked her lips. Dagon was in an ugly mood, sharpening his sword with long, rasping strokes of his whetstone. He stood by a tree stump, outside the bustling camp with its wagons, cages of Rovian captives, milling soldiers and tents.

  Dagon was perhaps the most dangerous of the offspring of Shamgar’s god. He certainly was the most inhuman in both shape and soul. He towered seven feet tall and was immensely hairy. Only his face and hands were not shaggy with thick, coarse growth. His head was too wide and the forehead low and brutish and his eyebrows floated on a Neanderthal ridge of bone. He had flat nostrils, a thick neck with heavy, bunching muscles and with long, apelike arms. He dwarfed everyone in camp expect for Chemosh and he was stronger than a gorilla, which Dagon resembled except that he had straight legs and his eyes—the eyes wrecked the bestial image. One of those eyes had an ingrown lash. That eye constantly wept a clear liquid.

  Dagon wore a red cape, a breechcloth and heavy black boots. Otherwise, his hair acted as a garment. He also had a belt and scabbard for his six-foot scimitar. From him exuded a strong animal odor. His lips now peeled back as an ape’s might, revealing horse-sized teeth.

  With a rasp of stone on steel, Dagon sharpened his oversized scimitar. Dagon lowered the whetstone and lifted his sword, twisting it back and forth, eyeing the razor edge.

  The beastmasters stood in a semicircle around him.

  Dagon stood poised, examining his sword. Disheveled, haunted-looking reavers stumbled out of the forest toward him. Some bled. Most had torn clothing. They gasped, their dirty faces streaked with sweat.

  Dagon lowered his scimitar, frowning at this strange phenomenon. The beastmasters and Nyla deferentially turned toward the swordsmen.

  Hyena handlers and slaves also staggered into camp, two of them helping a wounded Ut.

  Chemosh shook his head, grunting with disgust.

  Thorn, the reaver captain, quailed upon sight of Dagon. Blood had spattered his silk scarf. Thorn took a deep breath and resolutely stumbled to his lord, throwing himself before Dagon and groveling. The others did likewise, even the two helping Ut. The leprous half-Nephilim remained on his feet, however. The others around him writhed on the ground in abject fear before Dagon. Everyone in camp stopped what he or she was doing to watch. Even the many Rovian captives in their cages grew still.

  Dagon’s countenance darkened as he stretched an apishly long arm, holding the scimitar over his prostrate men. “I am not Gog, but I prophesy ill news. Yes, these wretches wish to profane my ears with defeatism.”

  “Lord—”

  “Silence,” said Dagon. “If I desire the lowing of cattle I’ll kick you in the side.”

  The groveling intensified. As he groveled beside them, Ut’s wounded shoulder began to bleed, soaking the soil.

  “You,” said Dagon, touching the scimitar-tip to the back of Thorn’s neck. “Explain this pathetic sight.”

  Thorn raised his dirt-stained face, the right eye having swollen shut. “Lord, the Rovians rampage throughout the forest. In their cunning, the savages have slipped near in their hundreds.”

  “Where is my Nebo scout?” asked Dagon.

  “Lod slew him, Lord.”

  “You actually saw the Seraph?” asked Dagon.

  “L-Lod charged with a picked guard of forest warriors,” Thorn said. “They howled from all sides, drilling their arrows into us. We barely managed to cut our way free. Lord Dagon, the forest is alive with the savages.”

  Dagon peered at the giant trees surrounding the camp of tents and wagon-cages. He pointed at a beastmaster. “Call your beasts. Patrol the outer perimeter. Send word the instant you find proof that Rovians lurk near camp.”

  Tall Radek of the Orns ran off as Dagon lowered his scimitar, his weeping eye squinting at Thorn.

  The reaver’s throat convulsed as if he tried to swallow parchment. “T-They’re cunning, Lord, like panthers, creeping closer and closer and then boiling up as if from the very ground. They’re devils, Lord. We’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

  At that moment, the Nebo loped into camp. He clutched his iron-headed hatchet, stained with g
ore, and tugged a leash. He forced a badly bruised Tamar to stumble after him. The Nebo jogged to Dagon, picking his way among the prostrate reavers and handlers. He bent on one knee, jerking Tamar before the apish Nephilim.

  “I am amazed,” said Dagon, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “to see that my tracker has been raised from the dead. Show me your death wound, scout.”

  The Nebo looked up, puzzled.

  “I am told Lod slew you.”

  The Nebo shook his misshapen head.

  Dagon eyed Tamar. She covered her breasts and wilted before his fierce gaze. He picked up her leash, tugging her near. A lewd grin transformed him. He nodded and shoved Tamar toward his tent. Then once more, he touched the scimitar-tip to the back of Thorn’s scarf-clad neck. “Give me no more of your gibbering panic. You were surprised, likely outwitted. Let me see your sword.”

  Thorn rose to his knees and with trembling limbs drew his blade.

  “It bears stains,” grunted Dagon. “Where is your buckler?”

  “I-I seem to have dropped it, Lord.”

  “In your terror you pitched it aside. Is that not so?”

  “N-No, Lord, I swear I lost it in battle. I killed—”

  “No lies,” rumbled Dagon.

  Thorn’s throat convulsed. “I hacked at them, Lord. But they swarmed everywhere. Arrows pulled down those around me. Then the white-haired one rose up. Lord, he is a demon. No one can stand against Lod.”

  Dagon exhaled like a bull about to charge as he examined the prostrate men. His fingers, the one around the hilt of his scimitar, tightened so the outlandish knuckles cracked. “Ut bears a wound. That will be punishment enough for him. Tell me, tracker, were you outnumbered?”

  “I’m not certain, Lord,” whispered the Nebo. “The Rovians hissed their arrows from behind trees and thickets.”

  “You were surprised?”

  “We were tricked into chasing the Seraph, Lord. We thought him alone, but he has found allies. They ambushed us one by one.”

  “Cattle,” said Dagon, his voice as hard as steel. “At least you had the wit to return and gather the maid. That took courage. You others—grab Thorn.”