Lod and Keros threaded through the greenery of the forest. The two moved past huge gopher and bdellium trees and slipped through walls of vines. The mountain warrior of Shur was in the lead. Keros often paused, listening and sniffing the air.
Lod was aware of Keros casting worried glances back at him. Lod stumbled too much. He flung sweat from his eyes. His foot just as often crashed down as stepped quietly. A silent snarl twisted his mouth. His eyes burned with fatigue and heat beat across his body. There was a madness upon him, and there was a haunted rage in his soul.
A damned spirit dwelled on him and wanted to dwell in him. Foul Nephilim. Foul necromancers. They used magic and beasts, and in their veins coursed diluted celestial blood. Their kind didn’t belong on the Earth.
Lod wheezed as he leaned against a tree and as sweat dripped from his beard. He dragged a forearm across his face. He had to concentrate. He had to keep his wits now that he neared Dagon’s camp. The damned spirit on his throat—for a wild instant, Lod wanted to claw out his throat, if that would free him from the pestilence of possession.
A callused hand pressed against his shoulder. “We’re near,” Keros whispered in his ear.
Whips cracked in the distance. There was the sound of hammering.
Lod straightened, and he drew his sword. He looked haggard, and he looked like an elemental force. Fierce determination burned in his blue eyes. “There is a way that seems right to a man,” he said, “but in the end it leads to his destruction.”
The Bolverk-forged blade was in Keros’s hand. He cast Lod a questioning look.
“Gog will never gain the Behemoth,” Lod said, his eyes shiny.
“You should rest,” said Keros.
“Rest?” asked Lod. “When I’m dead I’ll rest. Until then, I will plague the First Born and their brood. I will strike them down if I can or devour their hopes as they devour humanity. Come. Let us see the handiwork of the evil ones that we may prepare for their destruction.”
With a heavy tread, Lod brushed through the forest, his sword ready and his breathing labored. He pushed aside ferns, stumbled between thickets and grunted as he crouched behind a tall clump of reeds.
In a moment, Keros crouched beside him.
Lod squinted, his leathery features tight with anger.
“Look at all the stumps,” Keros said. “They’ve been busy.”
Two hundred paces separated Lod’s clump of reeds from a rugged log stockade. Many tree stumps and trampled ground lay between them. Several red-cloaked reavers patrolled from the top of the stockade. They marched about fifteen feet from the ground. Sunlight glinted from their bronze helmets and glinted from their spear-points. A thin column of smoke rose from within the stockade.
Lod cocked his head. The sounds of whipping and hammering seemed to come from behind the stockade.
“There,” whispered Keros, pointing.
A gate creaked open on the eastern side of the fort. They only saw part of the great log gate. An ox-drawn wagon soon appeared and then disappeared, hidden by the stockade. Dispirited Rovians marched behind the wagon, followed by red-cloaked reavers. Each appeared for a moment and then disappeared behind the fort.
“What are they doing over there?” muttered Lod.
“Building something,” Keros said.
The pressure on Lod’s throat eased for a moment. He received the impression that the evil spirit there tried to cast out its spiritual senses.
Lod dug his talon-like fingers into the damp soil, clutching dirt, squeezing. He wished Chemosh lived again so he could cut out the half-Nephilim’s heart!
“Let us use the forest and work around the fort and onto the other side,” Keros said. His anxious eyes roved everywhere. “Let us see why men crack whips.”
Lod withdrew his hands from the soil as he glanced at Keros. The lad was rugged, as tough a companion as he’d ever had. The mountain warrior often stared at the stars at night or he sharpened that princely blade of his. Keros was sick with worry about Tamar, but the lad seldom spoke about it. The former rat huntress and the lad had forged a powerful bond in Shamgar as they’d rescued him from the Catacombs. Lod wished he had the words to console Keros. He feared Dagon would badly misuse Tamar, do things to her—
Lod snarled silently as he rose. He passionately hated those of the blood. Their foulness, their demonic ways—
“We must be cautious,” Keros said. “The way the wind blows, as we circle the fort, it will put us downwind of their beasts.”
Lod’s gaze swept across the trampled terrain.
“Their beasts are likely hidden,” Keros said. “They will have set traps.”
Lod muttered darkly. The lad was right. Beasts and beastmasters— “Elohim guide us,” he said.
A loud scream sounded then.
“Do you hear the whips?” Lod rumbled.
Keros brooded.
“Let us see why they snap,” said Lod.
With a haunted look, Keros slipped away from the clump of ferns, motioning. Lod grunted, following the lad, knowing that Keros had uncanny skill as a woodsman.
***
For part of the journey, Keros found a deer path that led around the stockade as well as away from it. Soon, however, they had to slip back into the undergrowth. Perhaps an hour of careful crawling, fast dashes and picking their way through the foliage, brought them to the Sea of Nur. Tall reeds grew along its shores. Waves gently slapped among the reeds, causing them to sway. The bay flowed out into the greater sea. On the edge of the horizon was a speck. Lod believed it was the fabled Isle of the Behemoth.
“Look,” said Keros, pointing east.
Far out at sea, Lod spied a long neck rising up from the waves. The sea monster seemed abnormally interested in what occurred on shore. There was something uncanny or maybe even supernatural about it. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but the sight gave Lod hope.
Lod and Keros continued to trek, pushing through ferns and thick vines. The forest grew almost to the edge of the water. Soon they heard the thud of mattocks striking dirt and the louder click of metal chipping stones. The odor of sweat drifted on the breeze. Men coughed. Some shouted orders, and always, whips cracked.
In time, Lod drew back the branch of a thickly growing spike bush. In the near distance, brown-skinned Rovians hacked at the soil with shovels and picks. They dug a channel for a half-buried galley.
“It’s huge,” Keros whispered.
Withered vines were piled into several huge piles near the half-buried galley. It seemed clear to Lod that the vines had covered the galley only a short time ago. A trench surrounded the ship, Rovians in the trench hurled dirt from it a shovel full at a time. The same Rovians must have torn the vines off the galley. As Keros said, it was a huge vessel. It reminded Lod of the massive galleys of Poseidonis. He’d been a chained oar-slave on such a galley for twenty long years.
Lod examined his leathery hands. He’d spent much of his life pulling on a galley oar. The creak of wood, the stench of the fouled bilge, the crack of whips—the old feeling of coiled rage began to tighten in Lod. He might have gone mad during his years at the oar. His visions had intensified toward the end of those years. He had sworn grim oaths to Elohim.
“They’re digging a channel to the galley,” Keros whispered.
Lod’s gaze narrowed. Yes, it appeared Dagon wanted to float the big vessel. No doubt, he planned to use it to travel to the Isle of the Behemoth.
“Notice the slaves,” said Keros.
Lod studied the Rovians.
They were stripped to the waist and mostly in the trench or in the channel. When their heads appeared, they cast nervous glances at the forest. The large tree stumps and trampled ground had created a circular area, with the stockade and half-buried galley in the center. By their manner, the captive Rovians seemed to expect an attack. Reavers patrolled, with ready shields, spears and bows. It surprised him there were so few guards. Lod had expected more of them.
It was then Lod saw the giant cave b
ear. It shuffled out of the main gate of the fort and toward the galley. Beside the beast strode a woman in black leathers. She reached up and touched the bear’s side, and the giant bear glanced at her in what appeared to be affection.
The pressure on Lod’s throat grew. He wheezed for air, and he caused the thicket to move in a way that was not dictated by the wind.
An alert reaver looked his way, staring at the forest where Lod hid.
“We must slip away,” whispered Keros.
Lod worked to swallow, and he took another wheezing breath. Chemosh’s spirit was furious, and sight of the cave bear had caused it.
Two reavers now trotted toward them as they passed a large tree stump. The reavers were dressed for war. They wore leather armor, with crisscrossing metal-studded straps and brass buckles. The combination jangled against each other.
“We must slip away from here,” Keros urged.
Lod nodded, and he retreated in a crouch. His hand flew up to his throat then. He staggered, tripped and crashed against a bush, making the leaves shake.
A shout went up from the approaching reavers.
“Hurry!” whispered Keros. His callused fingers tightened on Lod’s arm as he helped Lod back up.
***
The spirit of Chemosh seethed at what he’d seen. Nyla controlled his cave bear! That was impossible. The woman controlled leopards, not bruins. Compared to him, her beastmastering powers were weak. His control of the cave bear had demanded a continual use of spirit while he’d been alive. It had been a constant struggle of wills. How could a weak leopard-master control the cave bear in such a short time? It could not be!
Worse, the bear had come to adore her. The spirit of Chemosh had seen that through Lod’s eyes.
Theltocarna! It has to be.
Gog only had a limited supply of the potent beastmastering drug. That meant Nyla had either stolen some or been given it. Only Gog could have given it to her.
If Chemosh had still possessed his flesh, he would have sagged into a chair, dazed by the realization that Gog must have foreseen his death. Gog had foreseen it and hadn’t warned him. Instead, Gog had sent Nyla with theltocarna to take control of the cave bear. The conclusion was obvious. Gog had been in collusion with his death. Gog had forsaken him. Likely, Dagon had forsaken him as well.
The dark spirit seethed on Lod’s throat. The spirit of Chemosh had trusted Gog. He had trusted Dagon. In life, his father and grandfather must have become afraid of him. They must have plotted his death. They must pay. Yet how could he make them pay? He was trapped on Lod’s throat, weakening the Seraph but unable to possess the needed flesh.
No! He was Chemosh the Shaman. A mere human couldn’t thwart him, not even the legend of the canals. It was then that the spirit of Chemosh knew what he had to do.
***
“Lod?” said Keros. “You must hurry. They’re coming.”
Lod turned so very slowly until the mountain warrior swam into view. Keros stared at him, with worry plainly etched there, with the lad’s mouth turned downward. What was wrong? The pressure on his throat…it was hard to breathe. It was hard to think. It was hard to keep awake.
“Lod,” said Keros, sounding far away.
Lod’s eyelids fluttered. As Lod forced his legs to move, he heard reavers crashing through the foliage. The reavers shouted. Then Lod could no longer keep awake. He collapsed as he had near the ancient ruins. He was falling, the ground rushed up to meet him.
***
Lod stood in darkness with a twist of a rag around his loins and an iron collar around his neck. He wasn’t dreaming. He—bright light blinded him. Lod savagely rubbed his eyes. A big, fork-bearded man strode toward him. The big man, the half-Nephilim, wore a mammoth-fur coat and had black-painted fingernails. A golden circlet kept the shaggy hair from the man’s eyes. He carried a spear.
The half-Nephilim came to a halt and ground his spear-butt. “You are a dead man,” Chemosh said in a heavy voice.
“I killed you,” said Lod. “You didn’t kill me.”
A hard grin split Chemosh’s lips. “That isn’t what I mean. Reavers are beating the undergrowth for you. Soon they will find your body. They will drag it to Dagon. He will sense my spirit on you. To rid himself of me, he will kill your body, killing you. At that moment, I will leap onto someone nearby. Perhaps it will even an animal, I will possess it.”
Lod’s fingers stiffened as if they were talons. He hunched his shoulders.
“Wait before you launch your last attack,” said Chemosh, holding up his spear. “Hear my offer.”
Lod licked his lips. “Speak,” he said thickly.
Chemosh’s dark eyes burned. His coarse features hardened. “You are an uncommon man. That is the truth. Where you have found the strength of spirit to resist me, I don’t understand. The void of death reaches for me. I keep it at bay by tapping into you. But that is killing your body. Two souls cannot inhabit one body for long. I tell you this to show that I am making my offer in good faith.”
Lod said nothing, but his blue eyes blazed with passion.
Chemosh’s nostrils flared. “Listen to reason for once in your life. I want to live. You want to live. Very well, for me to transfer my spirit safely, I need magical strength. I do not care to gamble. So we must work together as I show you how to fashion a necromancer’s skull. We will pack it with torn souls. Then I will transfer my spirit elsewhere, leaving you in possession of your miserable flesh.”
“Never!” shouted Lod, advancing a step.
“You crass lout!” shouted Chemosh. “Listen to me. There is power nearby that you can’t conceive of. With it, I can give you anything you desire.”
“Leave!”
“Can’t you feel the power?” Chemosh said, waving his spear. “Are you that terrestrial-bound that the nearby isle doesn’t heat your soul? Feel it, rat bait. Soak in its otherworldly might.”
A wash of heat, a wonderful blaze, touched Lod’s soul.
“There is a reason the Behemoth has grown to such vast size,” Chemosh said.
“What reason?” Lod asked.
“Finally, you show sense.”
Lod took another step closer, hating the arrogance in Chemosh’s voice. The desire to rush forward and finish it was nearly overwhelming.
“You fool!” snarled Chemosh. “The reason is obvious: because the Behemoth lives on the sacred isle.”
“It’s sacred to your foul blood,” Lod sneered. “That makes it an isle of iniquity.”
“Listen, you fool. Once, a Shining One above tended the sacred fire on the golden altar before the throne of him who claims to be Most High. It was a celestial flame, its light beyond the things of Earth. When the bene elohim were driven to Earth, the former Shining One dared fill a censor with the fire from the altar, taking it with him in exile. He became the one known as Baal of Fire, and he built his palace on the isle in the Sea of Nur.”
“You mean the Isle of the Behemoth?” asked Lod.
“Baal wielded his dread fire in his days of Earthly authority, building a large kingdom. When in time the Shining Ones descended from above and took ship from these very shores were you stand, they landed on the isle. To greet them, Baal marched out with his First Born and their Nephilim sons. The old lore says that he blasted the Shining Ones with balefire, and he used other dire calamities against them. It brought fierce retribution as the Shining One sought aid from their Master. Hail and fire mixed with blood rained down from Heaven. The fiery hail ate the flesh of Baal, his First Born and their Nephilim retainers, leaving a field of smoldering ash.
“In the deepest crypt, the dread fire still burns. It was taken from the golden altar of him who claims to be Most High. The supernatural flame that burns in the stolen censor warps the isle into a pale reflection of the Celestial Realm.”
Lod glared at Chemosh as fire filled his veins with the desire to rush the half-Nephilim and kill him. The story was incredible, but Lod had heard tales like this before. It could be true. W
hat most convinced him was the defeat of Baal of Fire. That smacked of the truth, and it was something no half-Nephilim liked to say.
“Tell me what any of this has to do with you,” said Lod.
Chemosh’s features had become twisted with fear. “The reavers of Dagon are almost upon your body. I hear them even now. Give me temporary control of your flesh and I will kill them. We must not allow the reavers to drag you before Dagon.”
Lod laughed grimly, shaking his head.
“You fool!” shouted Chemosh. “We’ll die. Do you want to die?”
“I want you out of me!” roared Lod. Despite the tale, despite his desire to know more and learn what all this meant to the evil ones, Lod charged.
Chemosh bellowed, and he heaved the spear. It moved like a flash, like a thought.
Lod had been waiting for that. He’d trained once with Herrek of Teman Clan. The Elonite warrior had been the Champion of his clan. Herrek had shown him an unarmed way to deflect a hurled spear. It called for speed and perfect coordination. It meant unflinching concentration. The spearhead was two feet of sharpened iron. The weapon was razor-sharp and coming on too fast to dodge. It had to be taken behind the spearhead with the swift blow of the forearm. Lod struck. The flashing spear caromed away from him, striking something unseen forty feet behind.
Lod laughed madly, knowing that Elohim was with him.
Chemosh’s eyes bulged outward in terror. His bearded mouth worked until a scream of anguish tore from his throat. Then that which was Chemosh in this strange place jumped upward and flew into darkness.
It left Lod staring upward in frustrated rage.
-14-
Keros slipped behind a large asm bush as two reavers crashed through the undergrowth. Lod lay twitching on the forest loam, with spit dribbling from his lips. At times Lod spoke and then a different voice spoke out of him. It reminded Keros of Bessus, when they had slipped into the Temple of Gog to free Lod. An evil spirit had possessed Bessus then. Keros had no idea how to help Lod now, other than keeping any enemies from plunging their weapons into him.
As Keros watched through the prickly asm bush, two reavers pushed aside some vines, spotted the prone body and boldly approached Lod. One was a beefy sea-brigand, with a sharp scimitar in his scarred fist. His metal-studded leather creaked and he had a spade-shaped beard. His companion was lean with a thin neck and with swirl tattoos on his cheeks. That one wore a spiked helm and clutched a shield and spear. He pointed his spear at Lod. The beefy reaver opened his mouth to shout, maybe to guide others here.
Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5) Page 13
