Then Dagon sucked in his breath. Lod stood inside the open door. The white-haired Seraph held his arm before him. From his hand dangled a golden chain. At the end of the chain swung a golden censor and from the censor flickered an ethereal flame. Lod’s features shined with awful intensity, and his long hair blew backward as if a powerful wind blew against him. Like a sleepwalker, Lod stepped out of the door and onto the street.
The Behemoth made another of its strange croaks, and it took a step backward
Dagon glanced at the creature. It trembled. From on its back, Ut stared in terror, his eyes wide and staring.
Dagon wiped his mouth with the back of his sword-hand. The damned Seraph had survived, and he’d found the ancient flame.
“Lod,” said Dagon, “bow down before me and I shall be merciful.”
A harsh laugh issued from Lod’s mouth. He was squinting as if walking into a powerful wind, and he took another step.
Dagon pointed the scimitar at Lod, and he blasted the Seraph with the full intensity of his domination. Lod was human, and he, Dagon, was Nephilim. He would control the man with his accursed gift. Dagon felt the power flow from him.
Lod stiffened, and after several seconds, he shook his head. “You cannot control me, son of Gog.”
“This farce has gone on long enough,” Dagon said. “I am about to kill you and end your miserable existence.”
“You come at me with shield and sword,” Lod intoned. “I come against you in the name of Elohim. Today, you will go down to Sheol.”
“Gnat!” roared Dagon. “I will hew you into pieces and feed you to the beasts of the field.”
Gripping the chain, Lod began to twirl the golden censor above his head. His eyes blazed wrath and the muscles were stark upon him, raised up in full exertion. Lod began to chant, speaking in an otherworldly tongue, his voice loud and piercing.
The Behemoth bawled in fright, backing up. Ut clung to the beast.
Dagon clashed his scimitar against his shield. Then he bellowed, and he charged Lod.
Lod braced his feet as he swung the censor, and like a ball at the end of a chain, he let go. The golden censor flew upward. The stolen flame from above blazed like a comet in flight. It streaked through the air, with smoke trailing behind it. Then the censor and the flame struck the paving of the ancient citadel of Baal.
It struck with a deafening peal of thunder as the flame flashed upward like a lightning bolt. Gigantic cracks spread outward from it, the beginning of a terrible earthquake. Ziggurats, monoliths, plinths and pyramids began to shake. Then the first of them fell as dust billowed into the air. Bricks and masonry rained, landing with splintering, crashing noises. There was rumbling, shaking and another flash of fire.
Dagon screamed as the earth opened beneath his feet. He plunged into the zigzagging crack, and the earth moved again, killing the Nephilim as it closed upon his flesh.
The Behemoth staggered one way and then another. With a thunderous bawl of terror, it turned as something puny tumbled from its back. The vast creature trotted through the ancient ruins as the monuments of Baal came crashing down around it. Stone gashed its side. Other pieces left jagged rents in the leathery skin of its tail. Yet the Behemoth survived, and it headed for the lake, no doubt to lie down in the cooling waters.
Ut lay groaning among giant blocks of rubble as dust drifted heavily in the air. Although he lay as one stunned, he’d survived his fall from the Behemoth, and he’d survived the falling bricks and stone. Then a horribly dusty Lod was before him. It seemed terribly unfair to Ut that Lod should still be on his feet.
As if wearing an avenger’s mask, the madman’s eyes shone through the dirt on his face. There was a heavy piece of stone in Lod’s talon-like hands. With a wet and explosive grunt, Lod heaved the stone high above his head.
“Lod!” screamed Ut.
Lod shouted Elohim’s name as he dashed the stone down. With the breaking of bones, it struck Ut full in the face. The beastmaster crashed back, dazed. Lod knelt beside him. Ut felt the strong hands, and he heard the sliding sound of steel against leather, the sound of his own knife leaving its scabbard. There came a sharp pain: the knife jabbing into his heart. Ut the Cannibal gasped. Then he sighed as his spirit departed his flesh, leaving this world and heading off to its destination in the next.
-23-
“What happened to the censor and the flame?” Tamar asked a day later.
Neither Keros nor Tamar had spoken since leaving the Isle of the Behemoth. They rode another dugout canoe, one fashioned alone by Lod.
“Look,” Keros said. He pointed at the beached galley. It was back at the mainland.
“After the quake ended,” Lod said, “it seemed as if I’d awoken from a dream. The ruins were rubble. Dagon was gone and Ut was buried under the stones I threw on him.”
“You buried him?” Keros asked in disbelief.
“I am not of the blood,” said Lod. “Yes, I gave him a decent burial.”
“What happened to the censor and the stolen flame?” Tamar asked again.
Lod had told them most of the tale during their boat-ride away from the isle. He was still dazed by it, amazed that Elohim had used him to unleash celestial vengeance.
“I didn’t look for the stolen flame,” said Lod. “But I think it’s no longer on Earth.”
Tamar nodded thoughtfully.
Keros dug his paddle into the water.
“We won,” Tamar said at last.
Lod breathed deeply. Dagon and his beastmasters were dead. Gog wouldn’t get his Behemoth. And he’d finally slain Ut. “We have won,” he agreed solemnly.
“What do you plan to do next?” asked Tamar.
“We shall land over there,” Lod said, pointing at the beached galley. “There we shall build an altar to Elohim, and we shall use the galley for firewood, offering Him sacrifices because of His goodness to us.”
Keros glanced at Tamar. She smiled shyly. Then together, the three of them rowed toward the deserted galley.
The End, Book #5
The epic adventure continues with
The Lod Saga
(Lost Civilizations: 6)
Read on for an exciting excerpt from the next book in Lost Civilizations.
These stories about Lod occur many years before the novels Gog and Behemoth. They tell of his younger years. And they show some of the process whereby Lod slowly became the deadly warrior of Elohim as seen in the previous novels.
--Vaughn Heppner
The Beast of Elohim
The legends of Lod were many, a grim hero of the Pre-Cataclysmic Age. That was long before the pyramids of Egypt rose and centuries before the ships of Crete ruled the seas. In that misty era of sabertooths, mammoths and behemoths, the demonic Nephilim walked the Earth. They were the sons of the bene elohim, who had come down from the celestial sphere and taken many daughters of men.
Possibly Lod was born somewhere along the shores of the Suttung Sea. The ancient sagas first mention him as rat bait in the wicked city of Shamgar. Leashed to a rat boat and swimming the oily canals in an iron collar, failed to prepare Lod for the wider world. But it gave him a fierce hatred for slavery.
He eventually escaped from the swamp city and traveled west across the Hanun Mountains. There, he fell in with an outlaw named Eglon. For a time, their band defied the Nephilim. It was a hard life, with harsh excitement and scant pleasures. Then Eglon died and his men were captured. Lod found himself chained in a slave-wagon, bound for the Stadium of Swords in the sprawling capital of Uruk….
-1-
Lod was about to die and all he could think about was young Argus and the boy’s cuneiform tablets. How one so young had known such a mysterious art had fascinated Lod. The pressing of the stylus against clay, the wedge-shaped marks that had told stories—it had seemed like a miracle.
The roar of the bloodthirsty crowd shook Lod from his thoughts.
He was in the land of Nod, in the terrible capital of Uruk, the first city of Eart
h. It was an ancient place, famed for its perversions. He was in the level directly underneath the Stadium of Swords, standing beside a stone pillar. There were hundreds of the irregularly planted pillars, and they made this place a honeycomb of torchlight and shadows. From nearby shadows, gigantic cave bears growled. Even nearer, grim braziers crackled with flames. White-hot irons had been shoved deeply into the coals of each brazier. The waiting attendants wore thick gloves, ready to press sizzling brands against reluctant fighters or beasts.
A chill ran through Lod, and he glanced at the Games Master. The man was thin like a fox and wore a scarlet robe. He had sly features and a chin beard.
As Lod shifted aside his loincloth, he turned away from the Games Master. Lod leaned a forearm against the cool pillar. It stank like urine down here and now he knew why. He tried to make water, knowing he’d not have another chance.
“Give him the helmet,” the Games Master said.
Lod readjusted his loincloth and wiped his fingers against his muscled thigh. A handler shoved a helmet toward him. The helmet was of polished steel, with a brass mask of a spitting sabertooth. It had two tiny eyeholes, while green feathers sprouted from the top. Lod wondered how he was supposed to breathe while wearing it.
“Hurry,” the Games Master said, “put it on.”
Raucous laughter rippled from the crowd above. It made the cave bears in their cages squint.
The handler thumped the helmet against Lod’s chest.
Lod scowled. He had strange blue eyes, a tigerish build and ropy muscles.
The Games Master snapped his fingers. “Bring heated irons. Burn this slave into reality.”
Lod had odd white hair for one so young. He was like a starved beast, every limb seemingly coiled with suppressed energy.
The handler chuckled perversely as the attendants with heated irons approached.
To Lod, the chuckle reminded him of the Nephilim giant who had chopped an axe into young Argus’s side. Lod’s eyes narrowed. Argus had screamed that day, lifting a clay tablet as a shield. Cuneiform had no magical powers against Nephilim-powered steel, however. There had been so much blood, so much blood spurting out of such a small body.
Lod snatched the helmet out of the handler’s hands. The helmet was as heavy as a baby. The leather padding inside was damp and smelled like sweat, like fear. Maybe they had ripped the helm off one of the poor fools who had already gone out there. When a slave died on the sand, they jabbed a hook into his ankle and dragged him below.
Lod slid the helmet over his head. The tiny eyeholes severely restricted his vision. His breath blew back against him and tasted stale.
“Buckle it,” the Games Master said.
Lod obeyed.
“Lock it,” the Games Master said. “I want to hear it click.”
Lod hesitated. Once he locked it, he would have to wait until someone inserted a key before he could remove the helm. Claustrophobia threatened. But those heated irons with their glowing white tips—he obeyed again.
“Check it,” the Games Master said.
The handler grabbed Lod’s helmet and twisted this way and that, twisting Lod’s corded neck each time.
Knuckles rapped against the metal.
“Look at me,” the Games Master said.
Lod’s head felt heavy now. He turned in what seemed like slow motion and aimed the eyeholes at the lean Games Masters.
“If you win,” the Games Master said—his chin-beard moved as he spoke. “If you win, I’ll buy you. I’ll turn you into a champion.”
A bitter sound echoed in Lod’s helmet.
“I’ve watched you,” the Games Master said. “You have strength and a leopard’s quickness. Unfortunately, your opponent is one of the best. But he has a weakness. His left eye is bad. When he gets tired, he will be blind on that side. Make the bout last and you have a chance. Rush in right away and you’re dead.”
“I have strength and speed, remember?” said Lod.
The Games Master touched his chin-beard like a fox rubbing its face. “Your opponent is a pit slave trained to a razor’s keenness. You’re just an outlaw used to merchants cowering at the sight of your sword. Make the bout last until sweat drips from his face. Then you have a chance. Now go! The crowd is restless.”
Someone shoved Lod from behind. Within the imprisoning helm, he couldn’t see who it was, although he knew it must be the handler.
Lod stumbled up the wooden ramp into warmer air. Light poured through the gap at the top of a wooden partition. The partition led into the stadium. A slave-handler held open the door to a cage. Lod would have to enter the cage before he could enter the stadium. Another slave-handler stood ready to open the cage-partition into the arena.
In his mind, Lod tried to conjure up Argus’s tablets. The boy had read to them from a captured supply. Argus had also pressed his stylus into damp clay, recording some of their exploits. Lod wanted to see those small fingers making their marks. Instead, he saw Eglon’s black orbs, his cunning stare. Eglon had led them. The Nephilim had called them outlaws. That was their view. Instead, Eglon and the others had been the last soldiers of Elohim. They had risen up from the cowed masses. They had torn off their slave yokes. Lod had been an outsider, a youth who’d fled from Shamgar looking for a home. He’d found one for a few months. He’d urged Eglon and the others to rise up because he knew that it was better to die on your feet than live on your knees.
Lod swallowed a lump in his throat. His brave words had cost them all of their lives. He entered the cage.
The first slave-handler slammed the cage-door shut behind him and locked the bolt into place.
Only now would they allow Lod weapons. It was a wise precaution.
Lod slid his left forearm through the leather bands of the shield that leaned against the bars inside the cage. The shield was big and rectangular and had a rim of iron along the edge. He picked up a ridiculously small sword. It was more a knife, although it had heft.
When Eglon had led them, they had fought with sabers, a slashing-style sword. There had been little art to it. They had hidden in the forest until a merchant caravan rumbled near. Then they had charged out screaming. A few wild swings had always sent most of the guards running. Eglon and he had killed the toughest ones. Eglon had been skilled and they had trained together many nights.
A trumpet blared outside. Lod twisted in surprise.
Both slave-handlers outside the cage laughed.
“Bet he faints when Barkos snarls,” the man at the partition said. He hunched his shoulders and dragged open the partition. Blinding light poured in, together with the sounds of the crowd.
Lod’s gut clenched, and to his dismay, he felt a tremor in his arms. He was alone among his enemies. He was the last of a proud band.
In that moment, he saw Argus—saw the lad in his mind, pressing the stylus into damp clay, making his strange, wedge-shaped marks. Then a glittering axe shattered the mental image. Blood jetted as it had months ago. Argus fell, twitched again. A huge Nephilim giant with a forked beard loomed over the boy. The Nephilim held the axe. The Nephilim sneered and he’d spat on the lad’s corpse. The Nephilim laughed as Lod charged out of the hut. Even after all these months, Lod replayed the bitter scene day after day. How could the giant have slain such an innocent lad?
Lod lurched toward the bright light, with his hand clenched around the sword. Hate filled him. He had always felt like this when they attacked the caravans. He gnashed his teeth. His muscles tightened with a sick need to strike, to slash and hew flesh.
“Slave,” the partition attendant whispered.
Lod stared at the thin attendant, and a wild urge to stab through the bars of his cage almost overcame him.
The attendant glanced both ways. Then he pressed his face against the bars. “I’ve heard about your band.” He frowned. “Everyone kicks us slaves. Here, this is for you.”
Lod had to tilt his helmet. The attendant shoved a Jogli knife through the bars hilt-first.
&nbs
p; This gesture of kindness, it caused goosebumps to pimple Lod’s arms. This was Elohim’s doing. This was a message. He must be brave because Elohim remembered him even here alone among his enemies. He must fight on his feet. He must refuse any shameful offers to live on his knees.
Lod took the knife and shoved it through the belt on his loincloth.
“Hurry,” the attendant whispered. “Get out there.”
“I thank you,” Lod rumbled. Then he trotted barefoot onto hot sand.
Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5) Page 22
