Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  As Tamar neared the tent, Dagon stepped out of it. The hairy Nephilim strode to her as he dabbed his watery eye with a wadded cloth. He carried a great circular shield with a trident symbol in the center. He wore an iron helmet, with a bar jutting down over his flat nose. He towered over her, his red cape fluttering in the sea breeze.

  She’d heard reavers mutter that a large band of coastal Rovians marched for the stockade. The word was that Dagon planned to meet them along the way.

  “Tamar,” he said.

  She dipped her head in deferential greeting. He’d made it clear to her that she’d be whipped if she didn’t. She felt his gaze as it devoured her. It made her flesh crawl.

  “You look lovely, as always,” he said. “Perhaps you shall beg for my touch after my return.”

  Tamar strove not to shudder.

  “During my absence, I’ve decided you need a bodyguard,” he said, his manner changing. “The Eagle Lord has pinpointed this gathering of Rovians. Can you believe that they mean to challenge me?”

  “Give me a sword,” she said. “I will guard myself.”

  Dagon’s manner changed again as he regarded her more closely.

  This time Tamar did shudder. She remembered Vidar, the half-giant in Shamgar. That one had frightened her. Dagon was much greater than Vidar, and more sinister. The Nephilim of Gog terrified her.

  Dagon touched her chin with a light brush of his fingertips. It produced a shock of sexual excitement in her. Tamar hugged herself and refused to moan. He must be using magic against her, making her feel naked before him. This feeling robbed her of her dignity.

  “You will not carry any sword,” he said, as his voice thickened with desire. “You must remain vulnerable so that your beauty may be awakened to its full pitch. Soon, you will pant for my touch. You will whimper to please me and crawl on your hands and knees to touch my fur.”

  Her throat tightened as she looked down at her feet. She wanted to shout at him that she would never do these things. Yet she knew that Dagon detested verbal disagreement. She’d seen him draw his scimitar and hew a Rovian woman in half who had told him to go to Sheol. He was Nephilim, much greater than a man. She had little choice but to fear.

  “Until that time,” Dagon said, his voice returning to its deep pitch, “I would hate for you to fall prey to this forest. Who knows what strange things might occur. Eber!” he shouted.

  Tamar looked up, startled.

  One-eyed Eber of the Rovians hastened to Dagon. The scarred primitive threw himself on the ground, groveling.

  “Eber is a loyal slave,” rumbled Dagon. “He has gained my trust. He will guard you. Bide his words, Tamar. It would be a pity to strip your flesh with a whip because you had disobeyed. Do you understand?”

  Sickly, Tamar nodded.

  Anger crossed the Nephilim’s brutish features. Dagon touched her cheek again. There was no sexual excitement this time. He twisted her head so a painful twinge hurt her neck.

  “I understand,” Tamar said, frightened of his anger. She hated that she feared him, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that he was Nephilim, much greater than a man.

  With the wadded cloth, Dagon dabbed his eye again. He gaze lingered, and he grunted. Then he strode toward the gate that led to the Sea of Nur.

  Eber scrambled upright, brushing the dust from his red tunic. The tunic marked him as one of several Rovians who’d taken service with Dagon. Most of the Rovian captives hacked vines that clung to an ancient galley. They also dug away the mud that almost buried the vessel.

  Tamar knew that the captive Rovians considered those wearing the red tunics as traitors. Each of the traitors had sworn faithful service to Dagon. Each had submitted. A grizzled reaver had branded each traitor’s left cheek with a tiny trident symbol. Each of the traitorous warriors had then received belts, iron daggers and the return of his weapons. Dagon had promised them death if they failed to perform their duties. Their task was simple. Stop the other Rovians from escaping. If a Rovian escaped, one of the guards would die by impalement.

  So far, three captive Rovians had died with arrows drilled in their backs. Those wearing the red tunics had pulled the bowstrings. The killers had thereby won the right to carry whips and help the reavers drive the captives.

  Eber had not yet slain someone. Tamar didn’t know if that was by design or simply because Eber hadn’t yet had an opportunity to kill another.

  The Rovian hunched his shoulders as he glanced about fervently. “You were a friend of Lod’s, is that not so?”

  Surprised, Tamar stared at Eber. This was the first time he’d spoken with her. She’d witnessed Dagon’s breaking of him the night Nyla had dragged Eber into camp. It had been a terrible ordeal, brutal.

  “I was with Lod,” she whispered.

  “He and Keros—”

  “What?” Tamar said, interrupting him. “How do you know about Keros?” She found it hard to breathe. It was impossible that this Rovian should know about the mountain warrior of Shur. Keros was dead. She’d seen him tumble down the long slope. She’d wanted to hurl herself after him, but Lod had dragged her away as they’d run from chasing cave hyenas. What could this traitor know about her sweet Keros?

  With his single eye, Eber blinked at her. “I helped Keros escape the hyenas.”

  “Speak sense,” Tamar said harshly.

  The Rovian warrior had lean muscles and olden scars mixed with the ones Dagon had given him. His grim features tightened. “…I led a war party once. We followed those of Shamgar. We witnessed the attack on you three on the high ground. Keros fell far, and he landed hidden and unconscious. We saw the big hyenas sniffing for him.” Eber looked away as something sad crossed his face. “I chose to help him. I made the others help me carry him away from the controlled beasts. Later, Keros told us what those from Shamgar desired.”

  “Keros is alive?” Tamar whispered.

  Eber regarded her, and he nodded.

  Tamar swayed as she blinked back tears. This couldn’t be true. Yet why would Eber lie to her? She hugged herself again. She couldn’t cry out here in the open. It was bad enough she wore this sheer kirtle.

  “Tell me everything,” she whispered.

  Eber’s head twitched in the negative. He spoke in a hoarse voice. “First, I want to know if you still have the courage to escape into the forest.”

  Bewildered at this fantastic news, Tamar almost said yes. Then she wondered about Eber the traitor. Before others, he had made a terrible oath to Dagon. If the oath was a lie, how could she know he wasn’t lying now? He was supposed to guard her. Wouldn’t a guard want to know if the prisoner planned to escape? She remembered Eber’s screams from the horrible night Dagon had broken him. Could a man recover from that?

  “Keros is dead,” she said.

  “You do not trust me, I know,” Eber said. “I understand. I shamed myself—”

  The Rovian warrior turned away, and his chin quivered for an instant.

  Was that an act? Tamar was too bewildered to know. Could Keros truly be alive? It gave her such hope to think so. Oh, she so wanted Keros to be alive. She wanted…she wanted to marry him, to be his woman. If Keros was dead, then she wanted to be dead. He had to be alive.

  The hope of his being alive gave her courage. That courage—I must be cunning.

  “There is no escape from here,” Tamar said.

  Eber continued to look away. Finally, he asked, “Are you afraid of the controlled beasts?”

  She regarded him more closely. Eber was lean, nut-brown like the other Rovians and dark-haired. She sensed terrible tension in him. Maybe there was a way to test his truthfulness.

  “I cannot escape in this kirtle,” she whispered. “I need Rovian garments, and I need a knife and a spear.”

  Eber frowned. “It would be my death to be caught giving you these things.”

  “It will be your death if we try to escape and are caught.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  Tamar couldn’
t be certain, but he seemed to ask too eagerly. Wasn’t it strange that he asked her if she had a plan? “First you must get those things,” she told him. “Then I’ll know I can trust you.”

  “Are you truly planning to escape?” asked Eber.

  Tamar steeled herself. This was just like the canals. She had nothing but her wits and her nerve. She was barefoot in an enemy camp, wearing a skimpy kirtle and a slave of the Nephilim. Dagon had bedded almost all the other women in camp. She knew the day was coming when he would decide to rape her. Would Eber know enough to make up this story about Keros being alive? It didn’t seem likely. So that much had to be true. Could she trust him, though? Maybe not, but she could certainly trick him.

  Swallowing her disgust, hoping that Keros would understand, Tamar gently touched the trident brand on Eber’s ravaged cheek. “That must have hurt,” she said softly.

  Eber stiffened at her touch. He licked his lips, nodding.

  “I’m sorry they hurt you,” she said.

  “It is not important,” he said thickly.

  “We must escape.”

  “I will help you,” Eber said.

  “First, I need Rovian garments, a knife and a spear.”

  “And then?”

  “You’re the guard. Surely you must have a plan.”

  A horn blared before Eber could answer. The Rovian warrior whirled around as his knife-hand darted to his new iron dagger.

  “It’s time to eat,” Tamar said. He seemed too jumpy. Maybe he really meant to aid her, but she wondered how much courage he possessed. The screams on that awful night….

  Eber pointed for her to lead the way to the feeding area. A reaver cook already laded soup into the first man’s bowl. Others were lining up with their bowls.

  Tamar walked carefully, at times tugging at the hem of her silken kirtle, trying to pull it down just a little more. Why had Dagon made him her guard? The Nephilim was cunning. What was it that Dagon planned for her?

  ***

  Later in the day, Eber stuck his head into her tent. “The Master wants to see you.”

  Tamar sat up from where she rested on a pallet. She blinked away her drowsiness, not liking that Eber said ‘Master’ instead of ‘Dagon’. She picked up an ivory brush and began combing her hair. She steeled her heart for another encounter in Dagon’s tent. Her hands shook. Soon it would be dark. Dagon had never summoned her after dusk.

  “He said quickly,” Eber said.

  With a clunk, Tamar dropped the brush onto a small table. Why was the Rovian so nervous?

  “The garments—” she began to say.

  Eber shook his head, and he stared at her, obviously wanting her to be quiet about that.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Eber gripped her arm. He had surprising strength. “You must hurry to the Master’s tent,” he whispered.

  She stared at him, smelling beer on his breath. “You’re drunk,” she said.

  He leered, or it seemed like a leer. “If you believe that, then so will others. No. I have only sipped enough beer to change my breath and I act as if I’m drunk. Now you must hurry to the Master’s tent.”

  “His name is Dagon,” she said.

  Eber’s grip tightened. “Until we are…gone, his name is Master.”

  “Have you lost your courage?”

  A hint of a deeper color crept up Eber’s neck. “If you believe a thing in your heart, it is easier to make others believe. He is Master. You are the slave. Remember that until you are free in the forest.” With that, Eber shoved her toward the flap.

  Tamar thought about Eber’s words, and she glanced back once at him. He motioned for her to hurry. Despite the churning in her stomach, she hurried toward Dagon’s tent. Two reavers stood guard at the entrance. They grinned at her, one glancing at her legs and the other at her breasts. They opened the flap as they leered.

  Tamar swallowed the lump in her throat and swept into the tent. The animalistic stench told her that Dagon must have worked hard today, sweated hard. The shadows in the tent concealed the rugs and the ironbound chests and they concealed the great wooden throne. A creak from the throne told her that Dagon brooded. Soon her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she noticed him watching her.

  “Walk for me,” he rumbled.

  Blushing furiously, feeling his stare, Tamar walked across the tent. Was this the night he would take her? The thought made her nauseous.

  Dagon grunted with appreciation as he scratched himself. “You are beauty incarnate,” he rumbled. “It is like fire in my brain and zeal in my loins. I should bed you here and now, teach you the ecstasy of lying with a stallion of a Nephilim. Afterward you would shun mortals. Do you wish to sire heroes?”

  Horror made it impossible for Tamar to answer.

  Dagon laughed. “You act like a shy maiden, when I know in your heart you yearn to lie with me. No woman can walk as you do and not yearn for my lust.”

  If he tries to rape me, I will sink my teeth into him.

  Dagon leered as he stood to his imposing height. With a stride, he loomed above her, his massive fingers stroking her hair. His odor was powerful like a wet dog, and it made her senses reel. He peered into her eyes. It was such a strange sensation. His stare heated her mind. Despite her loathing, Tamar felt an animal attraction toward him. She fought the attraction even as she pressed herself against his warm fur. What was she doing? She stroked the fur again. It was so smooth, so silky.

  Dagon laughed, breaking the spell, leaving her panting beside the table. “What a delicious enticement you are. My reavers would fight like hounds over your flesh.” He watched her, and as he did, moisture trickled out the eye with an ingrown eyelash. He turned away, picked up a cloth and sat on his throne, dabbing his eye.

  “Do you know it is a sign of my greatness that I have not yet bedded you? My desire to feel you squirm beneath me is torture. It is almost more than I can bear. Then I tell myself that I am Dagon, I am the greatest Nephilim, the greatest child of all the gods of Earth. That should make this self-control easier. But it doesn’t. Very soon, I will rip off your garment and fill you with my seed. You will bear my child. Before you conceive the child and I forever drive you from my sight, you will know me many, many nights.”

  Strength fled Tamar’s legs as she leaned heavily against a tent pole. She had to escape this night. Bear his child? That was a horror too awful to think about.

  His mood switched as he tossed aside the cloth. He picked a scroll off the table. “Gog has pierced the mystic veil. He has seen various futures. He foresaw Lod’s coming to the Sea of Nur. That was luck on Gog’s part, or so Gog told me. Because of their nature, my sire has difficulty spying on Seraphs. He knew my followers would attempt Lod’s capture in the forests, and he said they would fail. I doubted my sire, thinking I knew better and trusting in the cunning of those I have chosen. Gog warned me even as he said I would need Lod’s help in taking the great prize. That, too, I once doubted.”

  Tamar clutched the pole. Dagon looked like a brute, like a great hairy ape. Yet he thought of himself as greater and wiser than men. She would never conceive his child. He would never lie with her. Fear coursed through her belly. It made her legs weak. How could she resist his magic? She had actually wanted to lie with him. That disgusted her. If she failed to escape, then she had to kill him. Tamar realized this in a flash of insight. But if she killed him, what would Ut and the other beastmasters do to her? No, she mustn’t worry about that. If she thought about Ut and the guards…that would steal her courage. How could she kill Dagon? Don’t be stupid. You killed him just as you did a giant rat, by sinking a spear or a knife into his heart.

  Dagon had stopped talking.

  Tamar looked up.

  He eyed her speculatively.

  Could he read minds? What did he see in her? She smiled, and with her hand, she brushed her hair.

  Dagon drew a deep breath, as if breathing in the sight of her. “I have gazed at the isle on the horizon. It is said
that there the Behemoth lives.” Dagon grunted, and he placed the scroll in an iron box, locking it. Then he stood, belted on a curved scabbard and lifted the oiled scimitar from a cloth. He slid the deadly sword into its sheath, the raspy noise a promise of bloodshed.

  Dagon watched her. “Do you know why I have not made you howl with ecstasy?”

  Tamar stirred uneasily.

  Dagon laughed. “It is because of Lod. He is a single-minded madman. He will wish to rescue you, to keep you from what he considers as my vile touch. If I bedded you, bonded you to me with cords of passion and swelled your belly with my seed…. In Lod’s eyes, that would sully you. It would likely steal your glow.”

  “Did Gog foresee that?” Tamar asked thickly.

  Dagon scowled. “Never mind what Gog has foreseen. It is what Lod will see. You are dressed as my harlot and yet fight it in your soul. He will sense that, or the one with him will sense it, goading Lod. Love will unhinge and make Lod foolish. It will be in that moment I finally capture the madman for my sire.”

  “Why tell me this?” Tamar whispered. It sounded as if Dagon knew about Keros, about his being alive. Was that a slip from the Nephilim? Or had Dagon broken Eber so completely that this was all an elaborate game? Tamar didn’t know what to believe.

  Dagon grinned. “If you understand what’s at stake, it heightens your hopelessness. That too, Lod and the other will sense. It will goad them into rashness, and it teases you, my dear. Do you know that your beauty grows because of such things?”

  Tamar looked away, blushing. She had to escape. She hated this camp with its Nephilim, with its beastmasters and beasts.

  Dagon put his hand on her back. He shoved her toward the entrance, making her stumble. “Go before I take you, before I make you groan in pleasure. That night will come soon, but not now.”

  Tamar stumbled for the entrance, knowing that her time was short. She was going to have to trust Eber. If he tricked her at Dagon’s bidding, then she would have to kill Eber at the right moment and make a run for it.

  -13-