Nyla reached Eber. The knife she’d thrown was sticking in his back. He shouldn’t have been, but he was dead, lying motionless as blood soaked the ground around his throat. With her foot, she turned him over. Her eyes narrowed. The turncoat had plunged a knife into his own throat. Nyla nodded, understanding. Eber must have known he couldn’t escape, so instead of falling alive into Dagon’s hands a second time, he’d killed himself. She could understand the choice, even if she didn’t approve of it. She knelt, removing her dagger, wiping the gore on his red tunic.
A panting reaver with a torch raced to her.
Nyla sheathed her dagger, and she kicked the corpse in the side. “He aided Tamar.”
Ugly with fear, the reaver stared at her.
Nyla smiled inwardly. This was better and better. Ut would have several choice items to explain to Dagon. He would likely fall out of favor with Dagon. Then Ut would no longer have time or the position to utter his futile threats. The bonus was that when she finally captured Lod, her station would rise that much higher.
She kicked the corpse again. This had turned out to be a good night. “Drag this filth to the dung heap,” she said harshly.
“What about Tamar?” the reaver asked. “I saw her climb over the wall.”
“You and I would normally give chase,” Nyla said. “But someone has to remember how to act like an adult. Who guards the stockade now but for us? Shall we chase one captive to lose fifty others?”
The reaver shook his head as understanding began to seep into his eyes.
“You have done well,” Nyla said. “So shall I say to Dagon.”
“You are gracious,” the reaver said.
Nyla studied him, and she that saw she’d won him over. “Do as I’ve commanded,” she said. “The night is not yet over.”
The reaver hurried to his task, dragging the dead Rovian.
Nyla strode for the gate, deciding it would be wisest to spend the rest of the night beside the great beast.
-17-
Lod sat up with a start. He lay under a mocair-tree near shore. His eyes were bloodshot and twigs were twined in his tangled hair. His left ankle throbbed from where he’d twisted it last night on an exposed root.
The chase had lasted too long. He was exhausted. They had come close several times, but had never quite captured him.
Lod grunted as he drew his short sword. Dried gore stained it, and there was a large notch in the blade. He’d have to file that out later. He’d also have to wash out the scabbard, the caked blood in it. He’d been too busy last night to clean his sword before ramming it back home. He’d slain a cave hyena, one faster but less cunning than its brethren were. He’d also fought a reaver, a mace-wielder who had risen up in the darkness.
Lod rolled up his shirt now, and studied the purple bruise there. He tested his ribs, wincing, but continuing with his probing. He didn’t think any of them were broken. The mace-wielder had struck like a kicking mule. Lod had time for a wild swing and he’d seen in the starlight the reaver pitch back. Then Lod had kept crashing through the undergrowth, desperately trying to gain distance from the main body of hunters.
Lod stretched and then headed for the sea. Soon, he parted reeds and waded into the cool water. That felt good on his itchy skin. He removed his shirt, breeches and boots. Then he grabbed fistfuls of sand and scrubbed his flesh. He dunked his head and then soaked his garments, using sand to scrub them. He squeezed them as dry as possible. During the entire washing, he kept a close eye on the sky. One of Dagon’s beastmasters controlled an eagle. It would be bad now for the creature to discover him.
Lod donned his damp clothes, boots and buckled on the cleaned scabbard. Refreshed, his belly sloshing with water, he unpackaged some toughened Rovian deer jerky and gnawed on it as he tramped underneath the trees.
He didn’t want to have to run from hunters again any time soon.
He wondered if Keros had freed Tamar. The mountain warrior reminded him of a weed, one sprouting in cracked paving. Such a weed had no right to grow so tall. But weeds did, and Keros had become a dangerous warrior, viper-quick with the blade and possessed of that rare combination of reckless cunning. No one had ever done him a greater service than freeing him from Gog’s Catacombs. He liked the lad, and he respected him.
If Keros had fallen captive to the evil ones—Lod ran a rough hand through his damp hair. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t like thinking about Tamar in their hands. Those of the blood were like beasts of the field, like dogs in heat.
Lod brooded as he marched through the forest. Then he realized that some of Shamgar might not have given up last night. He began studying the trail behind him. He waited at places, but it seemed after a time that he’d truly shaken them last night.
Perhaps three hours later, around mid-morning, he reached the rendezvous Keros and he had agreed on yesterday.
The sound of laughter brought a rare smile to Lod’s face. The smell of cooked meat stole some of the smile’s power. Would Keros be that reckless?
Lod drew his sword, and he inched toward the rich smell of meat. It made his mouth water, and his stomach rumbled.
“Come on out, Lod,” Keros called.
Lod sheathed his weapon, brushed aside vines and stepped into a tiny clearing. Tamar lay on a pile of plucked grasses. Keros crouched beside a small campfire as he watched several spits shoved through cooking squirrels.
Both of them smiled. Then they laughed as Tamar rose and knelt behind Keros, draping her arms around his neck. Keros took one of her wrists, kissing her forearm. She smiled wider and tenderly kissed the back of his neck.
Lod crouched across the fire from them. “It pleases me you’re both safe,” he said.
Keros’s grip tightened around Tamar’s wrist. Her eyes grew moist.
Lod grew uneasy, and he quickly asked about the cooking squirrels.
Soon Keros spoke about last night. Tamar began to tell about Eber. Then Tamar grew urgent and told Lod all that Dagon had told her. She also spoke about conversations that she’d overheard from the reavers.
Keros interrupted by declaring the squirrels were ready. He removed the cooked meat from the spits, letting the pieces cool. Then each of them ate heartily.
“Dagon said the Behemoth lives on the isle,” Tamar said later.
“Yes,” said Lod. “We must reach the isle first.”
“I’ve been wondering about something,” Tamar said. “How will you stop the beastmasters from gaining control of the Behemoth?”
“Nothing is certain,” Lod told her.
“Nothing?” asked Keros.
“Except if I slay each beastmaster,” Lod said.
“You can’t expect to slay Ut, Radek, Nyla and Dagon,” Tamar said. “And what about their beasts, especially the bear?”
“Elohim will guide me,” Lod said.
“You mean you have no idea what you’re going to do?” Tamar asked.
“He just told you his plan,” Keros said.
“That’s not a plan, but a hope,” said Tamar.
“Such hopes have served me well in the past,” Lod said.
“Do you really believe that?” Tamar asked. “Didn’t that kind of plan get you captured and put in the Catacombs?”
Keros glanced sharply at Tamar and he tapped her wrist. Then he asked, “You must reach the isle first, eh?”
Lod nodded thoughtfully.
“Will we build a raft?” asked Keros.
“I have studied the currents,” Lod said. “They wash flotsam away from the isle. So I doubt a raft would work.”
“You need a rat boat,” said Tamar.
“That,” agreed Lod. “Or a dugout canoe.”
“A dugout what?” asked Keros.
“A hollowed out log,” said Tamar.
“How do you make one of those here?” Keros asked Lod. “We lack axes or the time.”
Lod stood. “We must find flint, dry sticks and small stones. Then we must work harder than the Rovians digg
ing the ancient galley out of the mire.”
***
Keros found an outcropping of flint, and with a rock, he bashed out sizeable chunks. Lod knapped the flint, flaking slices off until it had a keen edge. He embedded the sharp stone into a length of wood and thereby produced an axe. When he’d fashioned several such axes, he chose a small tree. Lod hewed it, dulling two of the flint axes. Then the trunk crashed to the ground. The three of them stripped the bark, and with the remaining axes rounded all but one of the sides.
Later Lod used fire, baking stones until they were red-hot. He set the stones on the trunk, heating it and drying out the green timber. Afterward, he used fire on the wood, burning sections at a time, chipping out the charred wood and repeating the process, slowly hollowing out the trunk. It was hard work and it took too much time.
Day and night, they burned and scraped, their eyes becoming bloodshot and their cheeks gaunt. It was a race to fashion their dugout canoe before the Rovians gave Dagon his galley.
***
In his spacious tent, Dagon sat on his throne, with Ut of Cave Hyenas and Nyla the Knife kneeling before him. Both the hyenas and the bear waited outside the barred stockade.
The hairy Nephilim eyed the two, with his huge scimitar lying across the arms of his throne. He let them bake in their fear. Ut hung his head, seething with the hatred that he failed to hide sufficiently. Ut was an outcast, an alien even among those of Shamgar. He was a leper, a cannibal and had committed patricide, slaying his father. Doom hung around Ut like a black wreath. The fool thought to placate him with a false attempt at humility. Ut was young for one of the blood. Yet he was filled with loathing for others that usually only came to one of the blood three to four times his age.
He, Dagon, was centuries old, filled with the guile of long life. It might have angered him, Ut’s attempted contrition. Instead, Dagon laughed within even as he maintained a harsh demeanor. In the coming days, Ut would serve him well.
After listening to the Chief of Reavers and after listening carefully to Nyla’s obviously edited tales, Dagon had concluded that in Ut he’d found the chosen instrument. Gog wanted the Behemoth. Gog did not want, however, one like Chemosh the Shaman to control the beast. With the theltocarna and being who he was, Ut was the perfect beastmaster to control the mightiest animal on Earth.
Dagon contemplated Ut and he thought about Chemosh’s spirit. Somehow, it had survived the body’s death. That was incredible, something worthy of a bene elohim or a gifted First Born. Chemosh had been half-Nephilim and yet he’d strengthened his spirit enough to win domination over a new body. It was possible Chemosh might have become immortal.
The idea both chilled and fascinated Dagon. As he studied the cannibal, he wondered if true wisdom lay in traveling to Poseidonis. Should he learn necromancy so that when the distant day of death arrived he could transfer his spirit to another body?
Dagon touched the blade of his scimitar. It was a thought worthy of deep consideration. But that wasn’t the issue today. Ut had slain his father, a terrible crime under the laws of Gog. By Gog’s writ, Dagon knew he should slay Ut in the most hideous manner possible. Gog might object to that action, however, for Gog wanted the Behemoth.
As Dagon considered his options, he let an evil smile stretch his mouth.
Ut shivered with increased fear, and the cannibal thumped onto his belly, groveling in an abject manner. The playacting didn’t fool Dagon, but it was a satisfying sight just the same.
Dagon had taken the measure of this fourth generation beastmaster. The more Ut abased himself, the more he would hate the one to whom he’d groveled before. And the more Ut hated, the harder he would try to gain revenge. His murder of Chemosh proved that. It was glaringly obvious that Ut exalted in his father’s death. It had likely led to Ut’s miscalculations these past days. It showed Dagon that ultimately Ut was a fool.
He would rather let a fool control the Behemoth than someone like Chemosh, a frighteningly effective beastmaster who had caused even Gog to fear his growing power.
Dagon switched his concentration, studying Nyla the Knife now. She let her head hang low. She was beautiful in an exotic way, but she lacked the innocence that enticed Dagon.
A low growl emanated from his throat. The fool Ut had lost him Tamar. The former rat huntress had been filled with a unique innocence that he had keenly desired to rape into quivering terror. He would have filled her belly with his seed, creating another son of the blood.
Dagon studied Nyla. She was clever. On principle, he doubted much of her story concerning last night. A good assassin by necessity was a good liar. She was of the fifth generation and she was a woman. Yet Gog had chosen her to carry the theltocarna and by implication for her to control Chemosh’s beast. She was supposed to capture Lod, something few Nephilim had ever achieved and that never for long.
Dagon clicked one of his fingernails against the tempered blade of his scimitar. The steel wasn’t Bolverk-forged, but it was high quality nonetheless. With the scimitar, he had slain over thirty Rovians in the Battle of the Reeds. Yet not once had one of their bones chipped or nicked his blade.
Nyla lacked Ut’s sheer power and she lacked the leper’s cannibalistic magic. Yet she was the more dangerous of the two. Dagon wondered if she had pierced his disguise of arrogance. He’d acted the part to perfection for centuries. Did she suspect that he played the most dangerous game of all, one of intrigue against Gog the Oracle?
Now he was near one of the greater prizes on Earth. The Flame of Baal was still said to burn on the Isle of the Behemoth. There were ways to use the celestial fire. There was the obvious use of licking balefire. But there were also healing qualities in the flame. The deepest of the old lore spoke about that. Dagon was almost certain that the flame hid itself from Gog’s ocular sight, and in consequence hid those near the flame.
A chill swept up Dagon’s spine. Nearing the celestial flame would be dangerous, especially if one like Lod reached the isle. Powers would be put into play….
Dagon tapped his blade. Then he gripped the hilt, lifting the scimitar off the arms of his wooden throne. He had plotted many decades for this. He’d deceived everyone as to his abilities and to his intentions.
There was a possibility that Gog had sent the assassin against him. Dagon lowered the blade until the razor edge touched Nyla’s neck.
“Have I angered you, Lord?” she whispered.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dagon watched Ut glance at them. The fool actually allowed a smile to twitch into place. Didn’t the cannibal have any control over himself?
“Have you lied to me, assassin?” Dagon asked.
“I have spoken the truth, Lord,” she said.
She spoke with conviction, and yet Dagon knew she lied. She was dangerous. It would therefore be important to keep her attention fixed on Lod.
“Last night, you did not join the chase against Lod,” Dagon said.
“Someone had to guard the stockade, Lord,” she said.
Ut’s head twitched. And the leper’s fingers balled into a fist.
“During your guarding of the stockade, Tamar escaped,” Dagon said.
“I slew their accomplice,” she said.
“It is the only factor keeping your head on your shoulders.”
A delightful shiver moved down her body. Dagon wondered if she had enough control to have faked that. He wasn’t sure.
He removed the edge from her neck, and he regarded the leper.
“What am I to do with you?” Dagon asked.
“Use me,” Ut said.
That was a good response. Dagon hadn’t believed Ut had it in him. It even made him wonder if Ut used his wretched appearance to fool all of them. Most humans and many Nephilim were fooled by Ut’s brutish appearance.
Dagon shook his head. No, Ut was a fool, not a cunning intriguer. It was time to play a role with these two, and perhaps play a role for Gog who could possibly watch through his ocular visions.
With a roar, Dagon
rose from this throne. “I leave you two in charge of my camp, and what do I find on my return? Tamar is snatched out of the stockade from under your noses. Lod runs free, killing my soldiers and mocking my grandson. The galley is still mired fast to the mud. No! I will not abide such imbecility.”
“Mercy,” Ut groveled.
“I am innocent of the charges,” Nyla said, rising.
With the back of his hand, Dagon struck Nyla across the face, hurling her to the tented floor. She lay stunned.
Dagon let the scimitar’s point touch her cheek. “Innocent?” he shouted. “You who lack Gog’s blood claim innocence?”
“I belong to the Order of Gog,” she whispered.
Oh, that was a good answer. And it proved to Dagon that she was too cunning by far. “Then I will mark you as one belonging to the Order!” he shouted.
Dagon’s hand twitched, and with the scimitar’s point, he scratched a trident symbol on her cheek. Blood welled immediately. Good. He’d grown tired of her unmarred beauty. This would change many things.
Nyla groaned, and she screwed her eyes shut. But she was strong-willed enough that she didn’t clutch her ruined cheek.
“And you!” Dagon roared, booting Ut in the side, making Ut grunt painfully. “How shall I reward you for your spiteful malice?”
“I slew a baleful spirit, Lord,” Ut cried.
“You were to act as my right hand,” Dagon said. “As my hand, you failed miserably. Thus, I chop away the offensive limb.”
“No!” Ut howled.
The scimitar flashed, and Ut’s mummy-wrapped right hand flew off his arm, to roll bloodily onto a carpet.
“My hand!” screamed Ut. “You chopped off my hand!” The leper scrambled after it.
Dagon snarled, booting Ut again, sending him part way across the tent.
Ut lay stunned. Then he shook himself, and weeping, he crawled to his lost hand, tenderly picking it off the floor, even as blood spurted from his stump. Then Ut screamed, and flesh sizzled, the stench wickedly awful as Dagon held a heated iron against the wound. Ut thrashed on the floor, crying out in agony.
Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5) Page 17
