Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Under the white cloth her weariness drove her to sleep and into the arms of the waiting nightmare.

  ***

  Adah woke up shaking, as the sea tossed them like a cork. Wind rattled her tiny tent. Raindrops pelted it. She crawled out, and was blasted by cold air and stinging rain.

  The others hung onto the sides of the boat. Auroch sat at the tiller, trying to steer them out of the worst of the storm.

  Adah opened her mouth, and let raindrops sting her tongue.

  “The rain is a blessing,” Zillith shouted into her ear.

  Adah kept her mouth open, like a baby bird ready for worms.

  “Here,” Zillith shouted.

  Adah groped, and her hands gripped a bottle. She put the spout to her lips, and drank the precious liquid. Revived, she saw that Lord Uriah had rigged his cloak to funnel rainwater into the water-skins.

  The wind howled. The angry sea sloshed them with spray and saltwater. One moment, a wall of water towered above them. The next, they rose upon a wave and Adah saw the white-capped waves vanishing into the curtains of rain. Then, as if they were in a runaway sled, they sped down the wave and back into a deep trough.

  Zillith bailed water with a leather bucket. Gens and Amery did likewise. “Gog’s pirates will never find us in the storm,” Zillith shouted.

  Soon, like the others, Adah was soaked and shivering. Zillith pushed her into the cocoon of the tiny tent. Adah’s body-warmth filled the tent with a modicum of heat. It was enough so she didn’t freeze. Despite the storm, rain and the threat of capsizing, she drifted into a dozing sleep, which wasn’t deep enough to send her back to the nightmares.

  Adah stirred later, and crawled out of the tent. The stars twinkled, and though the sea was rough, it was no longer storming. Night had stolen the day’s warmth, and the storm had left cold gusts. Incredibly, Lord Uriah had built a tiny fire. It was in a basin of stone filled with animal fat.

  “I found it in the locker,” he told her.

  Adah scuttled closer, warming herself.

  Zillith leaned over the gunwale, and squeezed water out of the rag she’d mopped between the boat’s ribs. Her bailing had left the boat relatively dry. Zillith looked up and smiled. “How are you feeling?”

  “Cold.”

  Zillith touched Adah’s side. Adah saw a thick bandage there.

  “You bruised some ribs,” Zillith said. “That probably happened when Nidhogg overturned the Tiras.”

  “Then I’m not going to die?” Adah asked.

  “Not on my watch,” Lord Uriah said.

  Auroch stiffened. In an instant, he grabbed a rope out of the locker and tied it around his waist. Then he clenched a heavy knife between his teeth, threw off his cloak and slid overboard.

  “What’s he doing?” Adah asked.

  Lord Uriah shrugged moodily.

  “He’s a strange man,” Zillith said.

  Ten minutes later, a huge hand grabbed the side of the rowboat. The sight startled Adah. The drenched half-Nephilim pulled himself into the boat. The knife was clenched between his teeth. He hauled his rope and dragged a dead sea-turtle after him.

  “Supper is my treat,” Auroch said.

  Adah was amazed. The man was phenomenal.

  But so were all Nephilim. And above them in heroic feats were the First Born. Auroch was only third generation Nephilim, yet he’d performed great and marvelous tasks. Without him, they’d never have gotten Irad and learned his incredible story. They owed Auroch much. It galled Adah to owe a Nephilim anything.

  She stabbed meat with her knife and roasted it over Lord Uriah’s fire. The turtle meat tasted awful, but it gave her strength.

  “We have to save ourselves,” Lord Uriah said.

  “The Siga Archipelago is probably the nearest landfall,” Auroch said.

  “Unfortunately, Gog’s galleys will also be patrolling those islands,” Lord Uriah said. “So we must attempt to go farther than that.”

  “You ask the impossible,” Auroch said.

  “I am ready to attempt the impossible,” said Lord Uriah. “My kin have been destroyed, as well as many other Elonites. I’m not about to let Gog enjoy his victory.” He peered at the pirate. “You have lost your captaincy. Gog and his followers have slain your men.”

  “True enough,” Auroch said, although he didn’t appear angered by it.

  “We’ll try for Carthalo,” Lord Uriah said.

  “A far reach,” Auroch said.

  “Yes, but it’s a feat that Adah can fashion into a fine song.”

  Auroch picked up an oar and nudged Gens in the back. Grumbling, Gens took up an oar. Zillith and Lord Uriah did likewise. Adah sat at the tiller. Then Auroch took a sighting by a star and set course for distant Carthalo.

  ***

  “There are no survivors,” said Lersi. The black-cloaked Gibborim wore a cowl over her head and refused to look at the nearby fire. Shadows hid her, and her haughty tone bespoke her high culture and self-assured superiority.

  Tarag tore the hindquarters from a slain auroch bull, and chomped upon the raw and bloody meat. Around him lay huge sabertooths. They were full, but tired from the endless journey. The crackling firelight flickered off Tarag’s adamant armor, and tossed shadows at the gnarly oaks surrounding them.

  “Nidhogg destroyed your enemies, Lord. There are no survivors to tell the tale of your acquisition.”

  Tarag grunted. His eyes were made shiny by the firelight.

  “Lord Uriah is not as easily slain as that,” said Mimir.

  Lersi shrugged.

  Mimir concealed his anger at her shrug. The trek had been difficult, and without Gaut Windrunner, the giants could no longer send fast, far-ranging scouts. More and more, Tarag relied upon the scouting of sliths, and at times, the hurried forays of Gibborim. The sliths also supplied an airborne link with the First Born Gog in Shamgar. Clever Lord Uriah had destroyed one slith, but his ships had been spotted in the end. Nidhogg had been sent, as Gog had boasted he could do. Now the Tiras and the Gisgo were no more.

  The Gibborim had become haughtier as they left the Kragehul Steppes and entered the Hanun Forest. Studied insults, and oh-so-subtle slights, had been their main form of communication with the giants. The others giants, Ygg especially, had become weary of Gibborim ways. The giants yearned to stride into the Gibborim camp and let their Bolverk-forged axes swing with abandon.

  But, not until they gained the treasure, Mimir constantly told them. “Then we can sate ourselves on the arrogant Gibborim.”

  “Your admiration for Lord Uriah is misplaced,” Lersi said in her haughty way. “Maybe he was a fierce foe to giants, for did he not slay your kind centuries ago?”

  Mimir let the comment pass. He had been named ‘the Wise’ for a reason.

  “What do you think?” growled Tarag.

  “High One,” Mimir said, “I think that wooden ships are more easily destroyed than Seraphs.”

  Tarag grunted, tearing another huge chunk of meat.

  “Nidhogg was victorious,” Lersi insisted.

  “Was he?” Mimir asked. “Didn’t you yourself tell us that in the end, the leviathan drove off Nidhogg? Why couldn’t the leviathan have scoured the battlefield and saved Seraphs?”

  “Impossible,” Lersi said.

  “You keep underestimating the Seraphs,” Mimir said. “That is a fatal weakness.”

  “While you overestimate them,” Lersi said. “Does immortal blood flow in their veins? No, only the sluggish substance of bloodmeat. I tell you, there are no survivors. Or, do you question the words of Gog?”

  Mimir would not be so foolish as to do that, not when they were every day marching closer to the First Born’s domain. “Gog has scourged this battle-site himself?” Mimir asked.

  Lersi hissed quietly, a sound barely audible above the crackling flames.

  Tarag made a gesture to Mimir. Mimir nodded at the white-haired attendants. The sweating men, servitors of the giants, threw more logs onto the bonfire. Lersi too
k a step back.

  “Stay,” Tarag snarled.

  Lersi froze.

  For all their arrogance, Mimir had observed, the Gibborim feared Tarag. He, in turn, had been polite to them. They were after all the children of Yorgash, one of Tarag’s First Born allies. The Gibborim were not huge and powerful like giants, but lean and secretive. More than any other race of Nephilim, they practiced the fearful art of necromancy. Ygg was rare among giants. A non-necromancer among Gibborim was their rarity. Mimir disliked their habits. He had yet to see one walk about during daylight. He wondered if they could. Perhaps, in some obscene way, their constant necromancy had changed them. They were night-creatures who shied from light.

  “Could not someone have survived Nidhogg’s attack?” Tarag growled.

  “It seems unlikely, High One,” Lersi said.

  “Yet Nidhogg was driven off by the leviathan,” Tarag growled. Several of the sleepy-eyed sabertooths sat up. They eyed the cowled Gibborim.

  Lersi bowed.

  “Where is the nearest shore?” Tarag asked.

  “High One?” asked Lersi.

  Tarag’s fire-shining eyes narrowed. He set aside his haunch of meat. The sabertooths became alert.

  Lersi went to one knee, and bent her cowled head. “How may I serve you, High One?”

  “Seraphs are cunning,” snarled Tarag. “Only a fool discounts them.”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “You shall hurry ahead of us,” Tarag said. “You shall walk among the Nebo. You shall check the shorelines and listen for strange rumors. Then, when you have captured any surviving Seraphs, you will bring them alive to me.”

  Lersi raised her cowled head. “O High One, may I ask a question?”

  “Speak!” Tarag said. Several of the sabertooths were standing now, licking their fanged jaws. They were absorbed with Lersi.

  “What if I find no Seraphs?” Lersi whispered.

  “Then you will have failed,” said Tarag.

  “L-Lord?”

  “Mimir the Wise is right. Seraphs are harder to destroy than wooden ships. Nidhogg was driven away. The leviathan will have saved someone. It is as certain as the rising of the sun.”

  “Bu-But lord—”

  Tarag rose, and snarled savagely. Now, all the sabertooths were up. Many of them inched toward the Gibborim.

  Mimir watched in amazement. Until now, Tarag had given the Gibborim every sign of respect. Why was he doing this? Mimir didn’t know, and that troubled him.

  “Did you war against the Shining Ones?” Tarag growled.

  Lersi shook her head.

  “Then do not speak to me of impossibilities! Find the Seraphs!” Tarag roared. “Then bring them to me!”

  Lersi bowed low, and now it was certain that she trembled.

  To be safe, Mimir also kneeled and bowed. From that position, he watched Lersi hurry to do Tarag’s bidding. He wondered why Tarag was so utterly certain that one or more Seraphs had survived Nidhogg’s attack, and had landed in Nebo Land. Perhaps later he would ask the First Born. Now, however, Mimir waited for Tarag to give him permission to rise from his subservient position.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A River Fight

  A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control.

  -- Proverbs 29:11

  “Come out of there,” a Nebo tribesman shouted in a barbarous accent.

  Joash trembled with fatigue. Half a week had passed since Herrek and he had landed on these grim shores.

  They’d shoved the raft into the reeds in the river-mouth, and anchored it with vines and rocks. Feverish Herrek had stuffed his mouth with green berries. After that, stomach cramps had felled him. Joash had guided the stumbling noble to a deep thicket. There, Herrek had shivered, sweated and kept nothing down. The stench had grown awful, and Joash had known predators would come to inspect the place. So that night, he’d half-dragged, half-guided the Elonite noble to a new thicket. In the morning, they’d moved again, because Joash had heard men speaking and drums talking. He’d recalled what Zillith had once told him in Havilah Holding concerning drum talk. Joash hadn’t been able to pick out much of what had been signaled among the Nebo, but he had deciphered one thing: enemy. That particular word had the same rhythm as Huri drum talk.

  Joash had believed the Nebo knew about them. Thus, he’d guided Herrek to a new location, and had told Harn to stay. Then, he’d gone deep in the forest to hunt, turning a branch here, kicking a spot in the ground there, as he blazed a trail.

  A band of Nebo with dogs had stumbled upon him. Joash had run, cutting one of his slain rabbits, so it had bled profusely. He’d thrown the corpse into a thorny thicket, diverting some of the dogs, which crashed into the thicket and made themselves useless for further tracking. Joash had done likewise later with his other rabbit. That time, he’d tossed it over a steep incline. He’d heard dogs yelp, and guessed that a few had broken their legs.

  Joash had gained ground on the trackers, and by cleverly using the river, he’d hidden himself from the Nebo. In time, he’d no longer heard the dogs. He’d slept in the water, and had awakened with a chill.

  Now—

  “I said come out of there,” a Nebo tribesman shouted in his barbarous accent.

  Joash ached, and felt weak. The chase had been severe, and sleeping in muddy river water had made it worse.

  “Come out now,” bellowed the tribesman. “Come out, or I’ll spear you from here.”

  Joash didn’t want to be speared. Not here in this dense, but tiny thicket, not when he could hardly see, could hardly think, could hardly even understand what was going on. He pushed off the bank, and struggled through the limbs and toward the shallow water. He’d been hidden in a deep, muddy pool under the trees. The sluggish river widened here, as it ran downstream toward the vast Suttung Sea.

  “You’re not of Nebo Land,” the tribesman said.

  Joash looked up as he swam. About twenty paces away stood the tribesman. The old man wasn’t much taller than he was. Once, perhaps, the tribesman had been muscular. Now, he was wrinkled, gnarled and stooped. He had a long tangle of gray hair, rheumy eyes, a loincloth and skinny legs. He wore a necklace of human teeth, a brass armlet—Joash spotted the boar’s tusk on the other arm. It wound twice around the man’s biceps. Such a tusk had come from a monstrous old boar, Joash knew, a giant boar.

  Joash looked into the old man’s eyes. The hunter’s pale eyes seemed to calculate the odds, and his wiry frame seemed up to a fight. The Nebo stood in the water and clutched a flint-tipped spear.

  Many Nebo with their superbly trained hounds went to Shamgar to be employment by the slavers. Flint people of the lowland forests, the nearer tribes had flocked to the Oracle and had responded to Gog’s teachings. The Nebo, and those who followed Gog, respected prowess. They ranked one another by the completion of difficult tasks. This Nebo hunter, who had a grass rope around his shrunken torso, smiled, showing small, worn-down teeth. Joash knew then that this older man was no doubt crafty in the ways of hunting. Perhaps he was not strong enough anymore to keep up with the others on a fast trail. Still, the old man would be ready for surprises.

  “Who are you?” Joash whispered.

  “Speak up, new-slave,” the Nebo shouted in his barbarous accent. “I can’t hear you.” The old hunter seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Who are you,” Joash asked in a louder voice.

  The Nebo chuckled nastily. “Get up here, new-slave, or I’ll gut you where you stand.”

  The old Nebo didn’t wear the giant boar’s tusk ornament because of simple fashion, or on a whim. Joash had learned that when learning about Irad the Arkite and his bear claw necklace. None of these primitive tribesmen would wear such a thing as a mere trinket. The ornaments worn by an Arkite, a Huri or a Nebo made a statement. Only a brave and resourceful hunter could have slain such a mighty boar.

  “Move quickly, new-slave.”

  That the Nebo still wore the tusk, even though he
was old, meant that he was proud. He could have set aside the tusk, and saved himself fights with the younger, stronger hunters. That he had not chosen to do so, meant that pride ruled his actions.

  “No tricks,” the Nebo shouted.

  “No tricks,” Joash agreed, even as he readied to trick the hunter.

  The slowly running water came to Joash’s waist. His hands were below water as he clutched his dagger. As he half-climbed, half-waded out of the muddy hole, he stirred the bottom with his feet in order to hide his blade.

  “Bring your hands up where I can see them.”

  Joash gasped as he faked a slip and plunged face-first into the water.

  “No tricks!”

  “Tired,” Joash wheezed. “I’m so tired.”

  The old Nebo chuckled, tightening his grip on the spear. “No tricks, new-slave, I know them all.”

  Joash slipped forward.

  “Stand!” the Nebo ordered.

  Joash stopped. “Why do you want me? I’m worth nothing to you.”

  “Worth nothing?” The Nebo chuckled. “Important people talk about you, new-slave. The message-drums never stop talking. They talk about your sly tricks, and about your ability to have survived Gog’s pet. That was a mighty feat.” The old Nebo shifted his stance. “If I should bring you in...”

  Joash froze. Important people already hunted for them? Tarag, sliths and Gog! For how else had this old tribesman come to learn about their surviving Nidhogg’s attack? Tarag had no doubt sent messengers ahead to stir up the Nebo, or Gog had.

  “...Yes,” the old Nebo said, “then they’ll see who the real hunter is. Those other fools ran the wrong way. I knew better. I knew you were sly. Your tricks with the rabbits proved that. You obviously understand dogs, and your back-tracking marks you as a skilled tracker.” He grinned tightly. “The others won’t laugh when I bring you in.”