Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I slew Gaut Windrunner.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why then is it impossible for me to slay Tarag?”

  “Joash was crouched beside you when you slew Gaut Windrunner,” Lord Uriah said. “Adah was also near, as was I. Gaut stood in the water, held tightly before you. You stood in a boat. All those factors went far toward your success.”

  Herrek said, “If you mean shrewd tactics helped me, then so be it. What are our chariots and lances? On the steppes these will give me the advantage.”

  “Adah will not join you, nor I, nor Zillith, nor I’m sure, do you expect Captain Maharbal to ride inland from his ship.”

  “What of Joash?” Herrek asked.

  Lord Uriah laughed bleakly.

  Herrek mulled this over. “Do you so despise my skills, that you think it’s impossible for me to slay Tarag?”

  “You speak about a First Born. They are masters of guile, and lords of power. You’re like a child before them. Still, there are conditions by which you could succeed. But those conditions will not be found on the steppes, not with a handful of charioteers.”

  “I disagree.”

  Lord Uriah peered into Herrek’s eyes. “How has this folly come to rest in your heart, my dear Herrek?”

  “Not folly,” Herrek said, “but the keen desire to defeat the true foe. Tarag attempts evil. I wish to stop him. I am not a prophet, a singer or a sea captain. I’m a warrior. To fight is my way. Why is that so difficult to understand? Or have you drunk too much today?”

  “...I see,” said Lord Uriah.

  “You’ll give me a chariot?”

  “I see that it’s a shame you’ve not lost more challenges in your life. Few can match your war-skills. Now Tarag easily threw you down. There, I think, lies the heart of your folly.”

  “What if it is?” Herrek said hotly. “Am I supposed to lie supine before anyone who is stronger than me, or has more guile or has defeated me? Or, am I to dust myself off, rearm, and then face the foe again? There, I think, is the true test of a warrior.”

  Lord Uriah stepped back, considering Herrek’s words. “You are truly brave,” he said at last.

  Herrek shrugged, saying, “Let not my talking impress you. Only by my actions do I wish to be known.”

  Lord Uriah brightened. “Are you a rebel?”

  “I’ve already said I’m not.”

  Lord Uriah waved that aside. “Show me you’re no rebel, and then I’ll believe you. Obey my words, only then will I know you’re not a rebel. Telling me you’re not, does nothing, for those are only words.”

  Herrek nodded slowly. “You’ve twisted my words against me.”

  “No,” Lord Uriah said. “I accept you as you wish to be accepted.”

  Herrek tightened his grip on the lance. “What shall I tell the warriors about the stallions?”

  “Tell them: ‘I obey my lord. The stallions will be left on the steppes as he says. And from his own herd will Lord Uriah reimburse you for all your lost chargers’.”

  Herrek bowed his head. “It will be as you say, Lord.”

  Lord Uriah left Herrek, taking Joash with him, leaning on him harder than ever.

  Tents went down. Bundles grew. The boats made many journeys from the sandbar to the Tiras. Aboard ship, the sailors were busy, stowing things in the hold and lashing other things to the deck.

  As Lord Uriah and Joash stood under a tree, Uriah said, “This the fifth time in my life I’ve left Jotunheim.” Joash sipped tea, Lord Uriah more ale.

  “When was the first time?”

  “Do you remember Adah’s story?” Lord Uriah asked. “The one where heroes of old marched into Jotunheim, hunting for giants?”

  “I remember,” Joash said.

  “How in the story Father Jotnar at last helped his children, the giants?”

  “Yes,” Joash said. “Adah told us the heroes were slain.”

  Lord Uriah had a far-off look, as he stared at the smudge of the Kragehul Steppes. He set down his mug. “Not all of them died,” he said softly. “A few of us made it off the grim steppes.”

  “You hunted the giants?”

  “When I was young, like Herrek,” Lord Uriah said. “When I was mad about pride and honor, like Herrek is.” He sighed wistfully. “There were more Seraphs then, and it was before the Great Sundering—although, the sundering was not far off even then. We knew the day of breaking would come, and we were sure it would be because of the prideful men of Ir.” Lord Uriah shook his head, his thoughts lost in the past.

  Joash knew about the Great Sundering. Zillith had taught him. When the Shining Ones had left the world with their prisoners, Caphtor, Ir, Larak and Iddo were united in a mighty Empire. Darkness had fallen upon much of the Earth. The Thousand Years War had brought misery, grief and a failing of knowledge. Those areas of the world longest under the Accursed yoke, were the most depraved, wretched and lacking in simple kindness. The Empire rulers had been charged by the Shining Ones to continue their work. The Seraphs and Elohim-fearing warriors were to hunt the Children of Darkness, who had fled the last battle. They were to put an end to the curse of the bene elohim, and they were to help humanity climb from the pit of savagery that the war had brought them to. For countless years, the Empire did as it was bidden.

  Slowly, the nearer regions of the world rose out of savagery and primitivism. The Imperial Seraphs often found Nephilim, and their fathers, deep in plots, or tyrannically ruling hidden valleys. There, cannibalism was practiced, or wretched slavery, or the ritual slaying of innocents. Each time these enclaves were discovered, the Empire waged relentless war, freeing the people and defeating the Nephilim.

  The Empire’s capital had always been Caphtor, but Glorious Ir was as large, and its armies as strong. By intrigue, and careful marriages, the kings of Ir, among the longest-lived men, grew mightier than ever. Their hearts hardened toward Caphtor, and toward the business left the Empire by the Shining Ones. First Born and Nephilim had always seemed to Ir’s monarchs as distant threats, and in the next-to-final King of Ir’s mind, not a threat at all. When he died, his eldest son accepted the crown, as tradition dictated. In the last King of Ir, the fear and love of Elohim vanished, as it had in most of his nobles’ hearts. What the Shining Ones had done, he was certain the armies of Glorious Ir could have done as well, or better. A thousand chariots were his to command. His spearmen were the bravest and the most ferocious on Earth.

  The people of Ir praised their king, and grew prideful in all that their glorious city had accomplished. They grew rich from trade, and powerful from stolen booty. Less and less did they send armies to wage war against the Nephilim, or help those in the outer regions regain civilization. Instead, the King of Ir concentrated his power in the Land of the Nine Cities.

  Then, the last King of Ir made his fateful move. The King of Larak, lord of the one of the Nine Cities, sent his beautiful daughter to Caphtor’s king to wed. Ir’s king lusted after her. A host was gathered, and Princess Hella of Larak was captured, and forced to marry Ir’s king.

  Caphtor’s king sent a wrathful message to Ir: “Return my bride, or there shall be strife between us.”

  Ir’s king refused, and thus began the thirty years War of Tears. The Empire was sundered, and many regions of the Earth were thrown back into primitive savagery. From that time, Seraphs had to wage their battles against the Accursed in secret, as much from the First Born and Nephilim hunting them with bitter ferocity, as to the now distrusting rulers of men.

  Joash finished his tea, pondering the fate of vain kings.

  “Look!” a herder screamed, shaking, pointing at the sky. High above, soared a monstrous beast with a red crest. Its wingspan seemed tremendous.

  “Do you see? Do you see?” Adah shouted, as she ran toward them. “A slith!”

  “A slith?” asked Lord Uriah.

  “Yorgash’s pets!” she shouted, drawing her bow, and letting an arrow fly. Arrow after arrow vainly flew at the distant creature. Adah, her face t
wisted with rage, her small feet planted wide, seemed incapable of stopping.

  At last, Joash put a hand on her bow.

  Adah glared with fierce hatred and fear.

  Joash recoiled, but that seemed to snap Adah out of her rage. She dropped her bow, as her shoulders slumped.

  “You don’t understand,” she whispered.

  Joash took her hands in his.

  “Ah,” Lord Uriah said softly, looking up anew. “Yorgash of Poseidonis has joined hands with his brethren. This is worse than I’d feared.”

  Adah tore her hands free, and said to Lord Uriah, “The slith will report what it sees to Tarag.”

  Lord Uriah nodded.

  “We’re being hunted.” Adah shuddered, and then she picked up her bow.

  Joash stared at the so-called slith. It soared high above, circling as an eagle does, or a vulture. He recalled Balak, pterodactyls and egg stealing. The slith was an overgrown pterodactyl, a giant among its kind. Joash had a scar on his back from those horrible days with Balak. He loathed pterodactyls. They had killed his friends, although he could never fault the beasts for protecting their nests.

  Could the giant pterodactyl, the slith, truly track them wherever they went? Could it speak as a man speaks? For how otherwise did it communicate with the First Born, and tell them what it saw?

  “What are we going to do?” Adah asked grimly.

  Joash wondered what terrors Adah had endured in far-off Poseidonis. Maybe it had been worse for her than it had been for him with Balak.

  “Yorgash used the slith to find our hiding places,” she quietly told Joash. “...There are things you don’t know about me. Maybe if you knew more you’d—”

  “No!” Joash said, hugging her. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll always love you.” He squeezed, released her and stepped back.

  She stared at him in shock.

  Lord Uriah cleared his throat.

  Adah blinked several times, then glanced at Lord Uriah, and said, “I’m sorry I lost control.”

  “You’ve braved more than anyone else I know,” Lord Uriah said. “That you’re still able to fight against the corrupted ones is a tribute to your courage, to your inner reserves. Do not be sorry because you’re human and can still be terrified.”

  She nodded and gave Joash a strange look. A tiny smile curved her lips.

  “I meant what I said,” Joash whispered, so only she could hear.

  She took hold of his hands, but said to Lord Uriah, “During my last days in Poseidonis we knew Yorgash by a new name: The High Slith Sorcerer.” She paled but forced herself to speak. “Yorgash’s pets roved the skies as he practiced his abominable spells. We’re doomed, my lord, if Yorgash has personally joined with Tarag.”

  “No, not yet,” Lord Uriah said.

  ***

  Joash had finished stitching his shirt, and mending his sandals. Now, he alternated between studying the high-flying slith, and watching Gens transform an ordinary piece of driftwood into a work of art. Adah spoke with Zillith. On the Captain’s Deck, Maharbal gave swift orders. Sails were hoisted, and the heavily laden ship headed out to sea.

  The Tiras overflowed with people. Below deck swung hammocks. Above deck lay mats, and in the cabin, the highest-ranked slept. Joash had been amazed how the tents, kettles and chariots, broken apart into axles, wheels and leather portions of cab, had all been stowed into each crevice and cranny of the ship. At first, it hadn’t looked like it could all fit, but the sailors were wizards at their craft. Above deck were now many leather-covered piles, giving shade from a blazing sun.

  The slith still soared in a circle, using the Tiras as its locus.

  Herrek walked away from where he watched the steppes, and sat down beside Joash. With a sigh, the warrior leaned against a leather-covered pile.

  Gens whittled away.

  “On to Gandvik Rock,” Herrek said, wistfully.

  Gens didn’t pause. His fingers maneuvered the blade, chipping a thin slice of wood here, carving out another there. A rearing stallion, on the broad face of the wood, lashed out with its front hooves at a sabertooth.

  Herrek scowled at the slith, and then stared at his hands. They were big, callused and strong.

  Gens stopped whittling, and straightened his back. “You need something to do,” he said.

  “My hands are not as skilled as yours,” Herrek said.

  “I don’t mean that you whittle.”

  “What then?” Herrek asked.

  Gens chewed over his words, as if searching for the right combination. “I love horses,” he said. “My mind overflows with them.” He grinned. “I even find horses in driftwood.”

  “Do you mean—”

  Gens held up his stick, stopping Herrek’s coming tirade about abandoning the stallions. “You’re a warrior,” he said.

  “Yes,” Herrek said, frowning, trying to understand.

  “Did you not give a promise in a cave to a certain groom?”

  Herrek glanced at Joash. Joash smiled. “I see,” Herrek said. “Did you put him up to this?” he asked Joash.

  “Not I,” Joash said.

  “Do you wish to learn the sword?” Herrek asked.

  “Yes, Warrior.”

  “I’ll find some wooden swords.”

  “When?” asked Joash.

  Herrek grunted as he stood. “Now, before the singer comes, and addles your mind.”

  Joash blushed, while Gens laughed.

  Soon, a duo of sailors produced the wooden swords. The hardwood was as long as a longsword, a good three feet in length. Herrek took off his sandals, and had Joash take off his. The deck was smooth, the wood worn by wind, salt and sea.

  “Aboard a ship, it’s wiser to go barefoot,” Herrek explained. “For the most important rule of swordsmanship is to keep your footing. On a slippery surface the skin on your soles is better than just about anything else.”

  Joash nodded, his expression grave.

  “Your first lesson will be in the correct placement of your feet,” Herrek said. “To properly wield the sword, you must know how to stand. To properly swing, to retreat and to advance, in all those things, you must know where to position your feet in order to gain the maximum advantage.”

  Joash nodded tightly, his forehead furrowed in concentration.

  “Notice,” Herrek said. He struck a poise, his feet positioned exactly. Smoothly, he lunged, touching the longsword’s tip against Joash’s chest. “You are dead,” he said.

  In such a manner, the lesson began.

  The Tiras entered the bigger swells of the deep sea. It made footing harder. Joash found his training difficult.

  “This is excellent!” Herrek said. “A pitching deck is the perfect place to learn how to stand, how to keep your balance. If you lunge, and try to stick your opponent, but you overbalance yourself, then you will die. To learn balance is critical.”

  Some of those who managed to keep their lunch down watched the training. Joash burned with embarrassment every time Herrek corrected him. Then, however, he glanced at a few of the grooms whose envy was plain. Joash grinned until Herrek raised his voice, “No, no! There!” He knocked Joash’s foot into the correct position.

  “Look!” Gens shouted, pointing over the starboard bow.

  The sea wasn’t choppy, but had long, low waves. What Gens pointed at skimmed low over the water, its long black beak parted, with the lower half in the green sea. The gigantic slith closed its beak, holding a fish twisting to be free. With a swift flip of its red-crested head, the slith swallowed the fish. Then it trailed its lower beak in the water, feasting on a passing shoal.

  “It’s huge,” Joash said, the wingspan had to be a good sixty feet from tip to tip. The skin was sleek, a mottled gray. Sharp-looking claws trailed its huge span of leathery wings. It peered at them with over-intelligent eyes. The slith sailed far enough away so neither javelineers, nor archers, could get a shot. Finally, glutted on fish, the slith flapped its huge wings, and rose into
the sky. As it wheeled to go, a second slith took up station high above the Tiras.

  Being on the Tiras didn’t make Joash feel safe anymore, and the long rolling swells terrified him. A bout of seasickness overwhelmed him then. He leaned over the railing, and heaved his lunch.

  ***

  Mimir was weary. He’d marched far. The death of his cousin, Gaut, still gnawed at him and added to his weariness. It had been that Joash, and that warrior who he’d seen in the crypt. Because of them, Gaut Windrunner lived no more. Over a thousand years of deeds had come to an abrupt end.

  Mimir shook his head, and stropped his axe-blade. The sound was soothing. It told of coming battle, of debts paid back. It also warned Tarag, and the Gibborim, not to forget the giants.

  Mimir examined the black tent of the Gibborim. They seldom walked about during the day. The huge ungainly slith had landed, and hopped into the vast tent. Now, the Gibborim learned its secrets. They would send the slith south, to a fast convoy of galleys, which flew Gog’s red trident flag. Then, let Lord Uriah beware. On all accounts, others must not know what the Elonites knew. There was only a slight danger in their knowledge, but the prize was so great that not even a slight danger could be allowed.

  Tarag snarled from within the huge tent.

  The Gibborim made soothing, sibilant sounds.

  Mimir scowled. The Gibborim wielded alien sorceries, and had vile feasting habits. Still, they were Nephilim, the children of the First Born Yorgash. They had marched fast from Shamgar, even entering Jotunheim. Their pets, the slith, would now, they’d assured Tarag, succeed where the giants had failed. That rankled, but they hadn’t entered the end game yet. Huge, lean Mimir, more than twice the height of a tall man, stropped his axe, giving the Bolverk-forged weapon a sharpness no human blade could equal. Too bad he couldn’t capture Joash. Most likely, the fish would nibble him after Gog’s galleys destroyed the ship.