The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3)
Page 1
Novels by Vaughn Heppner
The Ark Chronicles:
People of the Ark
People of the Flood
People of Babel
People of the Tower
Lost Civilizations:
Giants
Leviathan
The Tree of Life
Gog
Behemoth
The Lod Saga
The Doom Star Series:
Star Soldier
Bio-Weapon
Battle Pod
Cyborg Assault
Planet Wrecker
Alternate Europe Series:
The Dragon Horn
The Doomfarers of Erin
Dead Man's Moon
The Assassin of Carthage
Other Novels:
The Great Pagan Army
The Sword of Carthage
The Rogue Knight
Invasion: Alaska
Strontium-90
The Tree of Life
(Lost Civilizations: 3)
by Vaughn Heppner
Copyright © 2010 by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
Chapter One
The Captive
Sighing comes to me instead of food, my groans pour out like water. What I feared has come upon me, what I dreaded has happened to me. I have no peace, no quietness. I have no rest, but only turmoil.
-- Job 3:24-26
“Why don’t you kill me?” The speaker was a filthy human, with rusty chainmail and tangled red hair. He huddled under a twisted tree in the mountains. His face had become gaunt, with dark circles around his eyes.
The words surprised the trolock, an animated human-shaped thing of articulated rocks and boulders. He was eight feet tall, and his head was a boulder big enough to be ammunition for a siege engine. He had obsidian chips for eyes. When the trolock stood motionless, he was like a rock formation. He presently sat on crushed leaves, waiting.
“Just get it over with,” the gaunt human said.
The trolock moved his head, the sound like two millstones grinding together. He studied his captive. This one was unlike the forest primitives who’d bowed to Yorgash’s children. The trolock rumbled, congratulating himself once again how he’d remembered the Gibborim and their weaknesses.
A sack lay beside him, a sack full of human skulls with gems for eyes, skulls filled with stolen human souls, through necromantic rites and torture. He’d been quick to grab those from the Gibborim he’d slain. At times, it was all he could do not to crack them open. That would quicken him with spirit power. Not that he needed quickening just now, not after warming himself over the two twitching Gibborim he’d killed.
A laugh bubbled past his stony lips.
The gaunt captive under the tree cringed, as if terrified.
The trolock regarded his captive more closely. The human’s face was streaked with dirt and desperation. Yes, he recognized the emotion. He’d tied the human’s hands behind his back, and had looped a rope around his neck. This captive would not easily escape. The chainmail was of good make, although the trolock was sure that when he’d been a human in the Master’s army, his own armor had been better.
“Why do you despair?” rumbled the trolock.
The captive gave a bleak laugh, almost a sob.
“Are you weary?” The trolock had made certain to stop at times, and let the captive sleep. From his calculations, he’d stopped an hour for every five of marching. Surely, that was sufficient for a human like this.
“Kill me,” the human whispered.
The trolock put his stony hand around the captive’s head. What would the human’s freed soul tell him if he crushed the skull? What would he learn? Surely, this one had led an interesting life. He yearned to crush the head and soak up the sudden warmth that would burst forth. But, after quickening himself with the Gibborim, and oh what power he’d gained from them, his desire for a mere flicker was controllable. Besides, there was more to gain than a brief enjoyment of heat, a flurry of thoughts and events. What he needed was more knowledge. And this captive knew things. He’d been with the young man, the one who was impossible to track, the one who the Gibborim had snatched. Oh, they had understood the young man’s importance.
The huge trolock released the captive’s head.
Trembling, the human gazed at him in wonder.
“Are you cold?” the trolock asked.
The human shook his head.
“Why then do you shake?”
A strange smile stole over the captive’s features. The smile twisted the gaunt face, made him ugly.
“Are you a coward?” the trolock asked.
The terrible smile slipped as the man’s shoulders stiffened. “Damn you,” the man whispered.
The trolock chuckled. “Some of your kind would say that I already am.”
This time, the captive didn’t flinch at the laughter. His eyes tightened instead, but maybe that was from the rising sun. The rays peaked over the highest mountaintops.
The trolock glanced around at the stark vegetation, the brown tufts of grass and the occasional tree. No Nebo followed. The primitives had learned the folly of that. Somewhere ahead of them was the desecrator’s band of giants. The forest had disappeared because they were in the highlands of the mountain range that had tantalized them for so long. The trolock saw a mountain goat ease from behind a boulder. The goat had twisted horns and a long beard. When the goat saw him, it bleated and bounded up a ridge and out of sight.
“Why did you save me?” the human asked.
“Save you?” the trolock replied.
“You took me from the Gibborim.”
Since the human’s capture, they had not talked like this. For several nights and days, the trolock had been too busy following the desecrator’s band. The captive had stumbled along, but he hadn’t responded to queries. This change was good. It could prove useful.
“I want knowledge,” the trolock said.
“Of what?”
“Many things.”
The human looked down.
The trolock repressed his laughter. He’d seen the crafty glint. He’d seen a Nebo or two with that look. Yes, before the captured primitives had realized their bonds were unbreakable, and that no matter how they secretly squirmed, there was no escape. Then their crafty glints had changed to stark fear. Or the trolock supposed it had been fear. Yes, he decided. It had been fear.
The human regarded him. “I’ll give you knowledge, but only if you release me.”
The trolock shook his stony head.
The human breathed deeply, and said with dignity, “Then go ahead and kill me, and have done with it.”
The trolock admired such calm. He’d known this one was different from the primitives. But it surprised him that the inner fiber of this one had only stiffened when he’d asked if he was a coward. He would remember that.
“I’ll die soon,” the human said.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t let me eat.”
“Eat?” asked the trolock.
“All you do is let me drink from the streams we pass. I also need food to live.”
Troubled, the trolock looked away. He’d forgotten so much. Yes, humans needed food. For a moment, a terrible memory filled him. He recalled a certain food that one of his wives had cooked for him. La
mb—yes, that was the food. She’d made a delectable sauce for it. The trolock shook his stony head. He had to purge such memories. They made him weak. He was not Lord Skarpaler the human warrior, but the trolock, the Master’s servant of stone, the life-bane.
“Very well,” the human said quietly.
“What do those words mean?”
“You just shook your head. You’ve decided I’m not to receive food.”
The trolock studied the human.
The human grew uncomfortable, fidgeting.
“I will give you food.”
The human shrugged.
“But for it you will give me knowledge.”
The human tried to look disinterested, but the trolock knew better. The human wanted food, as much as he himself wanted quickening.
“Why did you and the young man come here?” asked the trolock.
“By young man, you mean Joash?”
“I am unfamiliar with his name. Give me facts. Give me knowledge.”
“We were washed ashore,” the human said. “We sailed from Jotunheim—”
“Hold! What is Jotunheim?”
“It’s the place where we first met, the steppes that contained your crypt.”
“I understand. Continue.”
“We sailed from Jotunheim and had a wreck. The young man and I landed here.”
“By luck?” asked the trolock.
“Bad luck.”
The trolock grew thoughtful. Did the human truly believe the agency that had brought him here had been luck? No, the trolock didn’t think so. This one had the stink of the Overlord. Surely, the human believed in divine interference.
“You lie,” the trolock said.
“Why should I lie?”
“I lack enough information to know the reason.”
The human toed an exposed root. He looked up. “Will you let me eat now?”
“I wish to know why you tracked the desecrator.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You were at the crypt. You saw how the First Born despoiled the Master.”
“Oh, I see. The desecrator… you find him to be evil?”
“That is self-evident.”
“Of course,” the human said. He lost some of his desperate look. He almost seemed thoughtful. “The desecrator plans to use your Master’s armor, sword and shield to gain great glory for himself.”
“How do you know this?” the trolock asked, trying to hide his excitement.
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d die before it’s told. So why bother to start? I don’t like doing things by halves.”
The trolock considered this. Perhaps the human spoke the truth. He would have to ask many questions, he supposed, and try to trap the human in his lies. He’d have to become a truth sifter. He hadn’t foreseen this when deciding to bring the human. Still, knowledge was critical. The human spoke as if he knew the desecrator’s plans.
“What is his ultimate goal?” the trolock rumbled.
“By his, you mean the desecrator?”
The trolock said nothing, waiting.
“I think his ultimate plan is to enter Eden.”
The trolock grew uneasy. Eden. This was Overlord talk. No, he didn’t like this. Strange things were afoot. Giants, Gibborim, sliths and First Born, would they ally together in order to storm Eden? He knew nothing about the fabled garden, other than that the bene elohim had never tried to storm it.
“Why would the desecrator enter Eden?”
“To eat from the Tree of Life,” the human said, “and thereby, live forever.”
With the sound of grinding rocks, the trolock stood and took a step back. Eternal life was impossible. But, if one could gain it through the Tree of Life—
“You did not come to this shore by luck,” the trolock said. “Tell me why you came.”
“The young man and I came to stop the desecrator from entering Eden.”
The trolock laughed. “You? Stop the desecrator? You lack the power.”
“Maybe, but I could still try.”
“Do not speak to me as if I were a fool,” the trolock warned.
Something flashed in the human’s green eyes. “If your foeman attempts to destroy you, then you must try to defeat him. Only that way does one gain glory.”
Glory. This human seemed to set great store by it.
“How would the desecrator destroy you by becoming immortal?” the trolock asked. “Your reasoning is faulty.”
“Because if the guardian Cherub loses, an unlikely event, Tarag would become un-killable after he eats the fruit from the Tree of Life. And if that happens, he becomes a god. Or perhaps the Cherub might destroy the Tree of Life in the battle that destroys Tarag. Asvarn the Prophet foretold disaster if that occurs.”
“The guardian Cherub?” the trolock laughed. “What foolishness do you spout now?”
The human looked confused, and therefore frightened.
“No, do not be afraid,” said the trolock. “Not yet. I must know more. Thus, you may be assured of longer life.” He smiled. “That is good, yes?” He knew how desperately these humans struggled to remain alive. It’s what made them like the Master.
“I grow too weary to think,” the human said. “I need food, or I’ll die.”
This could be true. He would hunt, therefore, and the human would eat. Then they would march again. The trolock smiled, exposing granite teeth. He looked forward to solving the puzzle. It was good to think again, to solve and to ponder. As his knowledge grew, he would be able to make sounder plans. But Trees of Life, guardian Cherubim and the Overlord—He didn’t like to dwell upon such things.
“We will hunt,” the trolock said. “After the hunt, you will eat, and try to live longer, yes?”
“Yes,” the human said.
This time, the crafty glint in the human’s gaze was plain to see. Good, the trolock thought. That will add to his resolve to live. Later, when he finally fed off the human’s spirit—this one called Herrek of Teman Clan—it would warm him even more. The trolock looked forward to the time.
Chapter Two
Carthalo
Your domain was on the high seas; your builders brought your beauty to perfection.
-- Ezekiel 27:4
A small woman and a man with a freshly trimmed white beard stood on the aft turret of a bireme. It was a green galley, and its two banks of oars moved in unison like a giant centipede’s legs. From inside the hull came a rhythmic drumbeat as the vast oars creaked and drove the bireme with such speed that foam boiled over the bronze ram at the prow.
Unlike the pirate vessels of Shamgar, freemen rowed this League of Peace bireme. Because the rowers were free, the captain could coax them to greater effort. He’d promised each a silver shekel if they reached the city by nightfall. The passengers had desperate need of speed. For them, it might already be too late.
The aft turret was a small timber castle with wooden merlons. During battle, archers crammed the turret and fired arrows onto enemy galleys. Presently, the man and woman stood alone, she with her hands on a crenellation that alternated with the merlons on the battlement. The man cradled a stone mug of ale.
“I’m filthy,” Adah said. Her eyes were like ink, pools of darkness surrounded by fiercely-tanned olive skin. Her rich cloak was a swirl of deep-sea blue and a scattering of yellow starfish and moon designs. On her back hung her bow and a quiver filled with parrot-feathered arrows. Adah was beautiful, if haggard from her latest ordeal.
Lord Uriah gave her a tolerant smile. He towered above her. A rugged, handsome man, he was over five hundred years old. He was the Patriarch of Elon, and one of the hardest men to kill on Earth. The promised shekels that the rowers would receive would come from his purse.
“I wonder how many baths it will take to rub the accumulated dirt from my skin?” Adah said.
“A single Carthalo bath should do the trick,” Lord Uriah said.
“I doubt it.”
They were on Nar Naccara’s flagship. A banner flapped on the mast above their heads, driven to its antics by the galley’s movement. It was the Admiral’s white hawk emblem. Lord Uriah and Adah spoke together in the morning air. Last night, the entire ship’s company had stayed on a sandy shore at a place midway between Dishon and Carthalo.
Last night, the bireme had proved shallow-drafted enough to haul onto the beach. No crew liked to spend a night aboard a crowded ship, and certainly not along this rocky coast with its treacherous shoals. Everybody wanted solid land in order to stretch, cook and perform the various toiletries. With dawn and a friendly tide, the galley had quickly found itself back in the water.
“I’ve never been to Carthalo,” Adah was saying. “I wish I could bathe, and put on fresh clothes before entering the city.”
“In Carthalo, they heat water with coals and pump it into the baths.”
“That sounds like a miracle,” Adah said.
“The Shining Ones built it,” Lord Uriah said. “It’s a fascinating city, as much for its architecture as for its sea wall. In all the Suttung Sea, there’s not another city like it.”
Adah watched the passing shore a half-mile from their galley. It was no longer a forest-filled wilderness. Instead, she saw vineyards and carefully cultivated barley fields. Sometimes, they passed quaint fishing communities, with peaked-roofed houses and industrious fishermen hauling their dawn catch into harbor. The fishermen shouted pleasantries to the bireme’s mariners. The mariners shouted back, waving.
“Carthalo is said to be the new Further Tarsh,” Lord Uriah said, growing expansive. “Its merchant-princes rival the mother city, and its wealth is perhaps greater. One of the reasons for that is the great swath of interior land the richest families have carved from the forests. Indenturing bondsmen, the rich cultivate the land as if it were a giant garden. Bondsmen removed all the trees and rocks, and add huge quantities of fertilizer. The abundance of the fields and vineyards has to be seen to be believed.
“Unfortunately, the wealth has brought strife between the estate families who farm inland, and the merchant-princes. The estate families hired an army of mercenaries and set their sons as officers in that army. The force was needed to keep the primitives of the interior awed and quiet, allowing the farmers to plant and sow in peace. The merchants-princes grumbled, as they helped pay for this army. Realizing it gave too much political authority to the estate families, they attempted to counter-balance by increased sea-trade. So they created new crafts. Their workhouses dyed wool, spun pottery and forged shovels, swords and nails. As their coffers filled, their prestige increased.