Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Low drooping trees lined the avenue. The gnarled trees were heavy with purple fruit. Some of the fruit glistened with what seemed like poison. Needle-like plinths rose beside squat pyramids. Strange stone idols with bearded faces, lion-like bodies and the wings of eagles guarded terraced buildings. At the top of one building was a fallen observatory. Great cylinders, dark towers and twisted, metallic arches added to the grim architecture.

  The countless monuments reminded Lod of an obelisk he’d seen in the land of Nod many years ago. He spied colossal statues with spears, swords or leaden maces aimed at the sky in defiance. All had evil script chiseled on ivory plaques or on bronze plates. Each, no doubt, boasted about the idol’s greatness. Rubble filled the wide avenues. Spiny weeds thrust up from cracks, while dust stirred at every breath of air, making Lod cough and filling his nostrils with a faint smell of soot. Olden chariots of immense size and smashed carts were broken everywhere. The architecture dwarfed him, and it seemed to have been created with a purpose. It showed humanity its insignificance. And it proved the greatness of those of the blood.

  Alone, Lod passed through the echoing streets, a puny visitor in a place not meant for the likes of him. Once, Baal of Fire had ruled here. Lod hunched his shoulders. Baal had produced many First Born, and they had conquered far lands, filling the isle with slaves, plunder and degradation. Baal had raised himself up like a god, and he had made a city of monuments to his glory.

  Lod kept glancing through gloomy portals. And it seemed to him at times that Baal or his sons would march out. He could feel ancient spirits stir with malice. They seemed to say that those of the blood dwarfed mere humans. Those who had come down from on high had subjected humanity, turned them into wretches and animal-like servitors to do their biding.

  Lod halted, with his senses reeling. Who was he to match the offspring of gods? He felt naked, powerless and small. It was like the days of his youth when he had swum the canals as rat bait. Every hand had been turned against him, and he’d been a slender lad, kicked, whipped and beaten.

  Lod’s nape hairs lifted as he studied a ziggurat’s ponderous stairway. There was a terrible altar of hewn stones at the summit. How many weeping men, women and children had Baal’s priests whipped up the steps? At the top, brutes would have slammed each sacrifice onto the altar, holding trembling limbs as a necromancer plunged his dagger into the man or woman’s breast. The necromancer would have ripped out the heart and stolen the soul to power a vile spell.

  Lod shuddered. That must have been a horrible world. Fallen angels masquerading as gods. Necromancy unleashed like a torrent and depravity the order of the day.

  Lod groaned, and he forced his leaden feet to shuffle. The ruins tainted his soul with their ancient evil. His stomach rumbled painfully, but the poisonous purple fruit didn’t tempt him, nor would he slake his thirst at a cistern of black water. He must leave these monuments. He had to depart from the heat that beat at his spirit, turning him into an infinitesimal mote of insignificance.

  In time, Lod panted as he stepped over a length of petrified board. He passed through a gate, wondering what Baal of Fire had thought long ago. The bene elohim might have passed this very way as he’d headed to his doom. Behind Baal would have jingled the harnesses of ironclad spearmen, archers and charioteers. In his train would have been huge First Born. Now it was just him, Lod, the former oar-slave.

  Lod began to breathe easier as he left the ruins behind. The flame yet flickered, hidden somewhere in a crypt. But it would be too difficult for him to approach near the flame. It would be better if he could slay the enemy with his sword.

  Lod trudged along an ancient road. No trees grew here, no weeds spouted from the cracks. There were just blackened boulders strewn at random. Soon, he reached a barren summit. Below spread out a great lake, and—

  Lod’s lips moved in silent wonder. He spied the great Behemoth. One of the blood wearing a mammoth-fur coat sat on the mighty hump. Lod squinted. It was Ut, and it was clear the beastmaster controlled the Behemoth.

  Behind the great creature toiled Dagon and a woman wearing black leathers.

  From the slope of the trail, the Behemoth roared, and Ut pointed up at him.

  Lod drew his sword, and he twisted the blade so sunlight flashed upon it.

  For a moment, the Behemoth, Ut, Dagon and the woman stared up at him. They still had a far way to travel before they reached here. Then the Behemoth began to trot. It was an amazing sight, with dust and dirt stirred by its ponderous gait. Perhaps just as amazing, although less awe-inspiring, Dagon raced even with the creature and then sped ahead of it. The Nephilim ran with a wolf’s speed.

  Lod sheathed his sword. How could a lone man defeat Dagon and the Behemoth? How could he kill the woman and Ut?

  Lod turned and regarded the monuments of Baal, the ancient ruins. He was weary. He didn’t want to go back and find the flame stolen from Heaven. As Lod regarded the ruins, it came to him that Baal, Gog, Dagon, Ut and the others were aliens to the Earth. Originally, the bene elohim had descended from above as invaders. They had acted with supreme arrogance and with diabolical malice toward men. They were demons of flesh and bone, and they had tormented Lod’s kind for ages. Those of the blood had hurt him, and had hurt many of those that he’d loved. Dagon would use the flame. Maybe the Nephilim would bring it to Shamgar for Gog to use.

  As Lod regarded the ruins, a wild light began to shine from his eyes. The bene elohim had come down as invaders. They were the enemy, tormenting, hurting and abusing men.

  “Grant me strength, O Elohim,” Lod whispered. “Let me this day smash their teeth and shatter their bones. I am but a man, but today I beg you give me victory over the evil ones of Gog.”

  Then Lod lurched toward the ruins, his face set like granite and his eyes ablaze with the kindled fire in his heart.

  ***

  Nyla fell farther behind as she trudged for the summit where Lod had waved his shiny sword. Ut rode the Behemoth as the vast creature shook the ground. Ahead of it, Dagon raced, with his scimitar and trident-marked shield.

  Nyla struggled in her heart. Dagon no longer drove her will. And she neared the terrible Flame of Baal. The supernatural power flowing from the hidden flame beat against her. The spiritual heat weakened her, and it made her feel small, and it seemed her hands were moist and sticky.

  Nyla rubbed her hands against her black leathers. She rubbed harder, wanting to rid her palms of—

  Nyla stopped and stared at her hands. They were covered in blood. She moaned at that, horrified. It was the blood of all those she’d murdered as an assassin of the Order of Gog. For that instant, she heard the cries of those she’d slain. It was a haunting sound, and she shrank back, desperately rubbing her hands against her garments.

  Then she blinked and her hands were like before, moist with sweat, but without dripping red blood. Nyla flexed her fingers, confused.

  She touched the trident mark on her cheek. Dagon had scarred her. He’d done it in a whim of cruelty. He’d dominated her will, using her, using all the beastmasters. Only Ut and she still lived.

  Nyla watched the Behemoth with Ut riding. The beast ponderously climbed toward the summit. Dagon had already reached the top and now raced out of view. Dagon would slay Lod, find the Flame of Baal and possibly return to Shamgar as a conquering lord. He might even try to depose his father Gog.

  Her hand remained on her wounded cheek. Dagon as her lord and god—no, she wanted no part of that. She wanted nothing more to do with the Flame of Baal or this ancient isle or the terrible Behemoth. In fact, as she stood here, Nyla realized that she wanted nothing more to do with Gog the Oracle or with Shamgar and the assassins.

  Nyla felt as if this moment was a crossroad. She could continue on it and continue to drench her hands in blood, or she could turn around and find a different path? Where would she go? She was an assassin. It’s all she knew.

  Nyla swallowed a lump of fear. She could find a new leopard and tame it, do anything but
continue on this path to the olden ruins of a defeated bene elohim. Baal had stolen a portion of the flame that burned on the golden altar of Him Most High. It had not helped Baal in the end. All those like Baal had been dragged down to Tartarus, chained, it was said, for judgment on the Great Day.

  Nyla turned around, peering down at the lake. There lay the mangled corpses of Radek of Orns and the Eagle Master. How could she escape from the island?

  Nyla smiled tightly. She could wade back out to the galley and persuade the reavers to row back to the mainland. But she would have to do it before Dagon returned. The Nephilim would hate her, maybe hunt for her in the years to come.

  Nyla touched her marked cheek again. She would be a death-seeking fool to remain with Dagon any longer. Life led away from the terrible flame and away from Gog and Shamgar.

  With an oath, and with the hope that this was a form of revenge against Dagon, Nyla began to walk down the slope. A moment later, she began to run, hurrying for the galley mired off the shore of the Isle of the Behemoth.

  -22-

  Panting in the middle of a shadowed lane, with a crumbling ziggurat towering over him on one side and the black monolith with evil cuneiform on the other, Lod swiveled his head. After a short time of desperate cat and mouse among the monuments, he was trapped.

  Dagon approached from one end of the lane. The huge Nephilim grinned evilly. He had a huge round shield of silver hue, with a red trident symbol of Gog in the center. In his other fist, he held a double-length scimitar.

  The Behemoth blocked the opposite avenue. The monster was vast, and it watched him with evil understanding. Or Ut used the creature’s eyes, watching through them as the beastmaster controlled the Behemoth. Ut sat high up there on the creature’s leathery back. Ut exposed his strong teeth in a vicious smile.

  “Your minutes are numbered, rat bait!” Ut shouted.

  Lod glanced right and left. Dagon or the Behemoth? Lod had slain those of the blood before, but always under special circumstances. He had no illusions about trading sword blows with Dagon. The Nephilim was heavier, faster, stronger, and he would possess greater endurance. The Behemoth would be even more impossible to overcome.

  Lod snarled in baffled rage. He’d felt the flame earlier. And he’d let his spirit guide him, believing that through it Elohim guided him. Yet now he was trapped between two impossible foes.

  Lod tightened his grip of the sword. He would die fighting. He would try to wound the one who slew him. But it galled him to face defeat here in the ruins of Baal.

  “You were a fool to come here,” Dagon said.

  The words were too much for Lod. “Elohim will give you into my hands!”

  Dagon laughed. “Do you still cling to your insanity? Look around you, Seraph. The greatness of the bene elohim dwarf whatever hovel you puny humans can create. Bah! Your god can do nothing to help you now. It is too late for that.”

  “Where are these rebels that you boast about?” shouted Lod. “I will tell you. They writhe in torment, gnashing their teeth as they contemplate their eternal folly.”

  “Your death will be a hard one,” Dagon promised.

  “We should sacrifice him on the ancient altar,” Ut shouted.

  “You are a dead man, Ut!” Lod roared, desperately wishing he could kill the cannibal.

  Ut pointed at the Behemoth’s head, and it seemed Ut spoke to the creature. The vast land monster opened its mouth and bellowed.

  Lod staggered backward as he dropped his sword and covered his ears. The earsplitting volume made his head ring with pain. His bones shook. He staggered and stumbled to his knees.

  “Abase yourself!” Dagon shouted. “Beg for mercy and turn to Gog for your deliverance.”

  Lod had stumbled, twisted around and his knee had struck a metallic thing in the street. The awful noise still made his ears ring. He scowled, and he looked down at what his knee touched. It was round, made of metal—

  Lod brushed the round object with his fingers. It was the size of a large shield. He scraped it and discovered grit and dirt between iron bars. Quickly, wondering if this was Elohim’s gift to him, he dug at the dirt, breaking a fingernail in his haste.

  This was a grate.

  “He has been driven mad in his fear!” Ut shouted in a mocking tone.

  “Fool!” called Dagon. “What are you doing?”

  Lod ignored those of the blood. The iron grate was rusted, and he noticed that the bricks around it were slightly sunken inward. As Lod clawed out ancient debris, he smelled wetness blowing up from it. He frowned, and then it dawned on him what this must be.

  When it rained, water must have gurgled into the grate and rushed into…underground cisterns.

  The Behemoth blocked one end of the lane and Dagon with his shield blocked the other. Crouched beside this rusted grate, Lod curled his talon-like fingers around the pitted iron. He heaved upward, leaving his sword where it lay.

  “What is he doing?” Ut shouted.

  “You bastard!” roared Dagon. “You won’t escape me here.”

  Lod heaved as his muscles rose up like cables. The ancient grate was damnably heavy. He heaved and the olden fused iron twisted against the bricks. With a roar, Lod slid aside the grate.

  “Stop!” bellowed Dagon.

  Lod snarled as he saw the slimy sides of the rock tunnel in the hole. He had no idea what awaited him below. But it was death to stay here. Besides, through the wetness, he felt the terrible power of the flame.

  Lod slid his feet into the tunnel and dropped within. Something heavy passed overhead. It might have been Dagon hurling his shield. Yes, a shield banged on the street. Then Lod plummeted into the slimy-coated darkness.

  Slime soon soaked his garments as he slid down. Cold muck coated the palm of his hands and smeared his face. Twice, Lod crashed against a horrid mass of built-up slime and gunk. It slowed his descent and caused fear to well. What if he wedged tight and died in the depths of the old tunnel?

  Rattling, bouncing, crashing sounds now banged above him. Dagon roared with rage. Perhaps the Nephilim hurled things after him.

  With a jar, a thud, and a hard cracking of his teeth as they snapped together, Lod stopped dead in the tunnel. It caught him by surprise. It folded his knees so they crashed against the slimy wall. One of his ankles twisted underneath. At the same instant, a chunk of something hard and heavy grazed the back of his head. It smacked his face against slime, against rock.

  As Lod blinked, as the fist-sized chunk banged against the grate by his feet, he heard more raining masonry. Knowing he could waste no more time, Lod stamped a booted foot. The grate didn’t move. He slithered up an arm, made a fist and held it over his head. The next asphalt chunk struck his forearm. It gashed skin and made him grunt with pain.

  They would stone him to death, as he stood trapped here. So Lod crouched as low as possible, crouched until his knees pressed against the slimy tunnel. Lod strained then, hardly able to reach the slime-coated bars of iron that made up the grate. He heard another chunk of asphalt careening down the tunnel. Lod ground his teeth together and heaved, straining with his arms. Slowly, by fits and starts, he rotated the grate. Then it stopped dead, and the next rattling chunk smashed against the base of his neck.

  Lod bellowed and turned with everything he had. The grate turned, clicked and fell away. Surprised and shocked, Lod plummeted after it, and he struck a landing six feet later. It caused him to pitch forward, and one piece of asphalt struck him in the back. Another landed beside him, splintering into pieces, one of which gashed his neck.

  Lod crawled, almost fell over a lip of stone, but righted himself and crawled along a shelf. More asphalt chunks hit, but now they missed. Some plummeted in the darkness and plunked into water.

  Lod turned right and left. Leftward, he felt awful heat. It was a throbbing power. Grinning harshly in the darkness, Lod began to crawl, certain that he neared the stolen flame of Heaven.

  ***

  Dagon opened his spirit, letting the
hidden flame of Baal flood his soul with heat. He should have slain Lod there in the street beside the Ziggurat of Gore. He found it troubling that Lod should have found a cistern grate and make good his escape.

  Was the one above aiding the Seraph?

  Dagon scowled as he slowly rotated, facing each direction in turn. He faced a column with an angel with a flame in his hand stepping on several bound humans. Below the bas-relief image were cuneiform symbols: wedge-shaped marks and lines, the beginning of a frightful spell. Dagon would study the stele once he owned the fire. He would prowl these ruins, gaining occult knowledge. Then he would march forth with the Behemoth and the censor of celestial flame. He would be Dagon the Overlord, wielder of the ancient fire and controller of the mightiest beast on Earth.

  “He’s likely dead,” Ut called.

  Dagon glanced at the Behemoth on the other side of the street. The Ziggurat of Gore was hidden now behind taller monuments. The two of them had been searching for a way into the cisterns.

  Dagon wondered if being so near the flame had strengthened Ut. Did the cannibal know things that only an eater of human flesh could? Cannibals were akin to necromancers, and both possessed strange abilities. Ut seemed much too vigorous for what he’d just gone through these past several days. Ut was a fool, but he had slain the spirit of Chemosh. Dagon vowed to remember that in dealing with the cannibal.

  “Lord!” shouted Ut, sounding fearful.

  The Behemoth croaked oddly.

  Dagon felt blistering soul-heat. It came from his left. He turned, raising his shield.

  A black tower stood there. It was made of stone. The door at the base of the tower began to slide outward.

  Across the street, the Behemoth shuffled around, facing the tower and the opening door.