“I’ll be ready soon,” said Lod. He sat back against a rock and shut his eyes. Oh, that felt good. It would just be a short rest.
In such a fashion, they traveled. Lod grimly pushed himself and yet rested more than he ever had in his life. Five days after the bear fight, Lod rested in a glade.
Lod rubbed his throat. He had never felt anything like this before. For some time now, it almost felt as if someone wanted his throat to hurt. Maybe as bad, at night something jolted him. It was a deliberate shove against his throat. It woke him, and it made it hard to get back to sleep. Yet each time, he had not seen anyone. It couldn’t have been Keros playing tricks, could it?
“What’s to eat?” said Lod.
Keros held up three empty loops. Normally his snares held squirrels, rabbits or even grouse.
Keros tucked the empty loops into his pouch and squatted near an esparto-woven rope. He had ripped out stalks as they traveled and twined them on the march. His snares had kept them fed.
Lod accepted a shriveled tuber, crunching it, wishing for meat or bread. “We’d better go,” he said.
He heard silent laughter then. The laughter had a Nephilim’s ring: an arrogant tone. And…he touched his throat. That silent laughter had something to do with his throat.
“Is something wrong?” asked Keros, who seemed to watch Lod too closely.
Lod picked up his dart. He pointed east. Something was wrong, and he was being to suspect magic. They left the shade of a tree and trudged downhill.
***
A day later, the vegetation changed as they went down-slope and they tramped past giant mocair-trees, similar to those where they’d fought the bear. The one difference was wider open spaces. They strode through a glade of purple flowers, with bees buzzing from plant to plant. In time, they crested a rise. Keros stopped and pointed ahead.
Lod shaded his eyes from the sun. “Are they boulders?”
“Take a closer look.”
Was his eyesight weakening? “It looks like a wall,” said Lod.
“Ruins,” said Keros.
Lod grunted, and he perched the three-foot dart on his shoulder.
They soon reached the ruined section of wall. It was made of massive stones piled one atop the other. Speckled lichen grew upon it and thorny vines. A clump of vines had brown-rot. A circled area of brown-rotted vines had withered, revealing the ancient wall underneath. There were blast marks on the old wall, strange gouges. Beyond the wall, lichen-covered stones made several lanes and then it was just grass again. It wasn’t much of a ruin, about an acre in extent.
“Was it an old fort?” asked Keros.
Lod opened his mouth to answer. Instead, his blue eyes bulged and he gulped like a carp sucking air. He began to tremble.
“Lod?” asked Keros.
Lod croaked what might have been a word. Then his muscles grew flaccid and he collapsed in what appeared to be a dead faint.
***
The dark spirit recognized the ruins. This had been an outpost of the bene elohim in their days of glory. The blast marks must have come from the Shining Ones with their grim powers.
The bene elohim had been refugees from the celestial realm who had fled to Earth, taking on fleshy forms. They had commingled with shapely women, delighting in the rutting, the ecstasy such as they had never known above. The offspring had been the First Born, those like Gog and the gods of Poseidonis and Lemuria. After the rutting and other terrestrial delights, the bene elohim had decided upon conquest. If they couldn’t rule above, they would rule here below. Yes, the spirit of Chemosh knew there were other versions to the history of the bene elohim, false tales the humans told each other. But what did that matter?
The important thing today, decided Chemosh, was to begin the conquest of this flesh. The ruins were a sign, an omen.
The spirit of Chemosh paused. He became troubled. In the past, in life, Chemosh had not put much faith in signs. Why should he now? Was it possible that Lod corrupted his spirit? Could Lod’s persona have infected him with primitive nonsense? That was troubling.
No, no, it wasn’t troubling. To think it was troubling smacked of defeatism. I am Chemosh the Shaman. This is an omen. Today—I attack and win control of Lod’s flesh!
***
Lod stumbled into a dark chamber. It bewildered him. The last thing he remembered was Keros asking him a question. They had stood by old ruins. Then he, Lod, had fainted. Was this a dream? It didn’t feel like a dream. Yet it didn’t feel real either. Did it have something to do with the pressure on his throat? He believed it did. This was magic. He sensed that much.
He wore rags and a collar. Then someone pushed him from behind. That angered Lod. He turned to see who it was, but there was nothing but darkness. More magic. More evil spells. It was time to end this. Time to—
A blinding ray of light appeared. The light struck a massive man sitting on a throne.
Lod scowled.
The monstrous man had a forked beard and wore a mammoth-fur coat. He’d painted his fingernails black. It was the beastmaster Chemosh the Shaman. The beastmaster wore a golden circlet around his forehead. He lifted a broad hand, almost as if in greeting.
“You must bow down to your new master,” rumbled Chemosh.
Lod shuffled nearer. “You’re dead. I killed you.”
Irritation ruffled Chemosh’s easy supremacy. He didn’t seem to like to hear that he was dead.
That didn’t make sense. How could the dead feel anything? Lod’s eyes narrowed. Was this the Land of the Dead? Had he died? He didn’t feel dead. Had his spirit—
Lod’s heart began to thump. This had something to do with his spirit. He sensed it. Yet it didn’t feel like his thought, but as if he eavesdropped on someone else.
“Where are we?” asked Lod.
“I do not have to answer you,” said Chemosh. The big man sat up. He puffed out his thick chest. “Know, rat bait, unless you bow down to me your life will be one of pain. Submit. In the end you will.”
“Submit to a dead man?” scoffed Lod.
“I’m not dead,” Chemosh said.
“Is this a dream?”
Chemosh pounded the arm of his throne. “Submit, rat bait! Bow down to your master.”
Dream…spirit…suddenly none of that mattered. A terrible sense of violation filled Lod. Chemosh wanted mastery of his very essence. Lod roared with rage. He sprinted at the throne.
“Fool!” shouted Chemosh. He rose and drew a gleaming dagger. “In this venue I am supreme.”
With an animal snarl, Lod leapt at Chemosh. He held his fingers rigid like an eagle’s talon. He raked Chemosh’s face. Flesh tore beneath his fingernails and left bloody furrows on the beastmaster’s cheek. Chemosh punched the dagger into Lod’s side. Lod grunted with pain, and that side went numb. He realized that he could not lose this fight. So he responded with desperate vigor. Chemosh was bigger, probably stronger. Lod bit Chemosh’s face. He kneed the beastmaster and he latched iron-like fingers around Chemosh’s throat. Lod throttled the monstrously big man. Perhaps in surprise, Chemosh lost hold of the dagger as he tried to fend off Lod’s demented assault.
“You madman,” Chemosh rasped, his face purpling. “Think of—”
The beastmaster’s words choked off as Lod’s fingers inexorably tightened.
Chemosh frantically waved his hand, and the room disappeared.
***
Lod stumbled, and he found himself kneeling on cool tiles. A fountain tinkled scented waters and a woman giggled. Lod rose. He wore rags, with a collar around his neck. For just a moment, he though he might be wounded. He checked his side. It was whole.
“He’s so handsome,” a woman said.
“I would wager him virile enough to mount each of us in turn,” another woman said in a sultry tone.
Lod turned, and found that a dozen beauties splashed in a pool. The fountain fed it water. He was in a dome, with golden light pouring in from openings up near the top. Doves flew there, others cooe
d in the arches.
“Come and join us, Lod,” called a woman.
He blushed. He couldn’t believe this. The woman who had called rose up. Water cascaded from her bare flesh. She moved with sinuous grace that enflamed his senses. She was naked, and her large breasts were stunning. It was hard to tear his sight from them. He wanted her. He wanted to kiss her, touch her. He tore his gaze from those breasts as other women laughed. Each of them was beautiful. Their smiles invited him. A few wore gauze that only heightened their nakedness. A dark-haired woman licked her lips. Another cupped her breasts the better for him to gaze at them.
“Swim with us, Lod,” she purred.
“Use us,” said another.
“Yes, use each one of us. We want you, Lod.”
“We desire you beyond life.”
“You must stay with us.”
“Where am I?” he said thickly.
The woman cupping her breasts laughed. “You’re in the Pool of Delights. This is all for you. We are yours to use as you please. You may stay as long as you like.”
Lod glanced from woman to woman. He had heard of palaces like this. He had never thought to enter one. He took a step toward the water.
“There is one condition,” said a new voice. The tone was heavy and very masculine.
Lod turned with a start.
Chemosh strode toward him. The big man wore blue silks that trailed on the tiles, with his dark hair held in place by a jeweled thong. He held a parchment in his thick hands, the fingernails painted black. Chemosh smiled. With his forked beard and strangely intense dark eyes, the smile looked insincere, like a wolf grinning at a rat.
The smile offended Lod. The beastmaster’s presence shamed him, as if Chemosh had caught him doing something wrong.
“You may possess these beauties, Lod, for as long as you desire. Each shall comply with your whims. Fondle them. Beat them. Mount them. Strangle them if you desire, it doesn’t matter. They will do exactly what you want and they will beg for more.”
Beat? Strangle? Why would he want to do something so vile? The suggestion he might actually enjoy doing vile deeds with these beauties…. Lod’s jaw dropped. Upright women—someone like Tamar—would not entice and lasciviously tease an unknown man as they had. They should be ashamed of themselves.
“Are they harlots?” asked Lod.
Chemosh laughed as if in high good humor. “They are gorgeous love slaves. They are desirable. Look at them. They beckon you to join them. They want to caress you. They want to bow down and worship you.”
“Are you their whoremaster?” shouted Lod.
“There is no need for rage,” Chemosh said, smiling. “I want you to have them.”
“You’re dead. I killed you.”
Chemosh frowned. “You should not say that. It isn’t very…sociable.”
Lod didn’t need a dead beastmaster reprimanding him. The beastmaster had practiced skull magic. Necromancers were the lowest of the damned. He would never be sociable with creatures so low.
“Dead!” shouted Lod. “I watched your bear turn and smash you aside.”
Chemosh shook his head, with his coarse lips compressed.
“How are you even here?” Lod asked. “Where am I? Where is this?”
Chemosh dragged one of his big hands across his face, as if trying to draw off his anger. He nodded afterward, smiling once more, this smile more insincere than the first. “All in good time, my man,” said Chemosh. “First, sign this.” Chemosh held out the parchment.
Lod couldn’t read. He couldn’t write. Surely, the half-Nephilim knew that. Chemosh mocked him. Those of the blood always thought they could mock you. He had killed Chemosh. Chemosh should have stayed dead.
Lod snatched the parchment that Chemosh waved in his face. He crumpled it and threw it in Chemosh’s face. “Answer my questions, dead man. Where am I?”
“Lod!” called a woman.
“We fought just a few seconds ago,” said Lod, ignoring the harlot. “I’m not dreaming, so where is this?”
Chemosh struggled to hold his smile. “Don’t you desire these beauties?” he asked thickly. “I know you do. Climb into the pool. Join them. Let them touch you. Touch them. Kiss them. Mount them now if you want to.”
Did Chemosh think he was going to watch? Lod took a fast step toward the beastmaster and smashed a fist into the leering face. The nose crumbled and Chemosh stumbled backward. Lod lashed out again, clipping Chemosh’s cheek.
“Don’t you want these women, you fool?” shouted Chemosh.
“I want dead men to stay dead!” bellowed Lod. He charged Chemosh.
Before Lod could reach the beastmaster, Chemosh waved his hand. Everything went dark.
***
“Lod, wake up. You must wake up.”
Lod eyelids fluttered. He groaned and opened his eyes. He lay on his back, with Keros kneeling over him. The lichen-covered wall hung in the background.
“What happened?” whispered Lod.
“You….” Keros tried to say.
Lod noticed it then. Keros looked terrified.
“What’s wrong?” whispered Lod.
“You’ve been raving,” Keros managed to say.
So he had been dreaming. It hadn’t felt like a dream. Lod never had dreams that felt so real, so deadly earnest.
Keros swallowed audibly. “You’ve been raving, and I heard another voice.”
“What does that mean?”
Keros’s eyes looked haunted. “You spoke in two voices, as if another possessed your throat.”
“Two voices?” asked Lod. That sounded wicked.
“Two different voices,” Keros said. “As if…as if you’re.…” Keros looked away.
Lod touched his throat. He had the oddest sensation then of someone else. The pressure wasn’t natural. It was unnatural. It came from magic, from a spell. It was a leech, or like a leech.
Lod grasped Keros’s arm. “Who did the other voice sound like?”
Keros’s eyes became evasive. They would not meet Lod’s.
“Have you ever heard the voice before?” asked Lod.
“No—yes! I have.” Keros seemed surprised. Then fear swept over him.
“Tell me who,” said Lod.
“He was the skull wizard, the owner of the cave bear. You called him Chemosh.”
A leech sucked blood. Chemosh—Lod pressed against his throat. Something had attached itself there, something that spoke with the beastmaster’s voice.
“I killed the beastmaster,” whispered Lod. In the dream, or whatever that had been, Chemosh had reacted badly whenever he had told the shaman he was dead.
“There’s something you should know,” Keros said. “Something that happened in the glade before you came back to consciousness. I wouldn’t have told you, but as you raved just now, a shadow kept appearing and disappearing from your face. I remember where that happened before. I must tell you. You must listen and believe.”
Lod listened to Keros. He grew grim-faced during the telling, and the pressure on this throat increased.
-12-
Barefoot, Tamar blushed with shame as she moved through the encampment. She wore a short silk kirtle. It barely hid her femininity from prying eyes. Dagon had allowed her no other article of clothing. The silk garment was too sheer, too soft against her skin. Even worse, it shortness forced her to walk with extreme care, almost delicately. Whenever she chanced by, reavers stopped sharpening their weapons and repairing their nets. They nudged one another and stared at her admiringly. Captive Rovians would sit up in their cages to stare as well. Tamar hated it.
She recalled Shamgar with bitterness, the many weeks it had taken winning her hunting locations. The other rat hunters had thought they could rape kisses from her or worse because she was a young girl. She’d shown them then, gutting a rapist with one of her tridents. Afterward, she’d worn rat-hunting gear at all times. She’d hidden her femininity.
Did Dagon now think he could tame her through such tri
cks as this? She fluffed the silk in disgust.
A reaver whistled.
As he stirred a cooking pot over a fire, Tamar scowled at him. He leered, and he whistled again.
Tamar wanted to race at him with a rock and bash it against his face. But now other reavers looked up from their tasks. She hurried as fast as she dared through the camp, enduring reaver after reaver turning and eyeing her hungrily.
Flexing her hands, Tamar longed for a trident. She would gladly spear each brigand. She wished they swam in the nearby sea, with her in a rat-boat, tossing weighted nets on them as they screamed or jabbing barbed prongs into their backs. She’d liked to hear them whistle then.
Tamar lowered her head as she headed for Dagon’s tent. The hairy Nephilim had bedded almost every other pretty woman in camp. Dagon considered it his privilege. He’d never bed her. Tamar vowed this to herself.
Dagon’s tent stood in the center of camp. This encampment was unlike the others of their journey. Upright logs with axe-hacked points formed a square stockade. It had taken a hard day of axing, sawing, hacking and lifting for those of Shamgar to fashion the stockade. Vigilant reavers now patrolled the rickety ramparts.
Tamar looked up. On three sides of the stockade, she spied the tops of the giant mocair-trees swaying in the breeze. Nothing but clouds loomed over the eastern wall. In that direction, was the green Sea of Nur. She’d seen it the first day of their arrival. It was beautiful and filled the eastern horizon.
Another reaver shouted for her attention, asking if she’d like to squirm for him tonight. Coarse-faced louts around him laughed at his suggestion, thinking his words the height of humor.
Trying to ignore them, Tamar smoothed the kirtle down around her thighs. Even another inch of silk would have helped hide her charms. This dress was simply too short. It was madding.
Tamar shook her head, keeping her gaze downcast. What made it worse was that everyone was crowded within the stockade. Only the wagons were outside. Corralled oxen and mules took up too much space, while each fighting beast had its own stall. Tents were everywhere, with the reavers sitting outside them mending clothes, dicing or oiling their gear. Why didn’t the brigands stay in the tents? The rest of the space was taken up by the wooden cages where Rovians endured their captivity.
Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5) Page 11
