One man, however, brooded. He was Lord Triton’s oldest son. He longed to rule Poseidonis. He longed to wear the golden crown, and hold the royal scepter. How he longed to sit in the throne of the royal barge. How he longed to make decrees, judge the maidens who would enter his harem, and lead the guards in midnight hunts. Lord Triton, however, was over four hundred years old. His father before him had lived to be eight hundred and thirty two. Lord Triton’s oldest son, well past a hundred years of age, knew bitterness and hatred toward the ruler of Poseidonis.
So he took a ship and left. He returned four years later. Nothing had changed in the jungle isle kingdom. Upon his return, the eldest son begged his father for the position of chief of the Royal Guard. Lord Triton loved his son, but he refused him this request. Kez of Caphtor was chief of the Royal Guard. Many years earlier, Lord Triton and Kez had shared a war together on the mainland. The bond between them was strong and long standing.
Bitterer than ever, Lord Triton’s eldest son put into action a plan to get his own way. He bribed certain men, and late one night, they unlocked the keep door and admitted a tall person in a cowled cloak. The person said no word, but he moved with sinister grace.
An hour later, a scream rang out and a man cried, “Lord Triton is dead!”
The keep bells rang, and the guards ran to their posts. They carried spears, bows and arrows. Only a few wore armor, Kez among them. They locked the doors and began to search. They came upon a tall man in a cowled cloak that hid his face.
“Who are you?” shouted Kez.
The tall man hissed with rage.
The guards lowered their spears. Kez shouted again.
That is when the Gibborim doffed his hood. The guards stepped back in alarm. Kez ordered the archers forward. Before arrows touched string, the Gibborim, a champion among his kind, leaped the distance between them, and hurled out his taloned hand. Archers screamed, with their guts ripped open. Guards thrust. The Gibborim leaped above them, spun, and raked his talons once more. More guards died. The Gibborim bounded, and raced to the locked door. With several blows, he shattered the wood and made his escape into the night.
In his fury, Kez broke down the eldest son’s bedroom door. He accused the son of murder. , Lord Triton’s son urged the guards to arrest Kez. The guardsmen wavered. Kez drew his sword, and tried to kill the son. Guardsmen fought him off. Thus, civil war came to Poseidonis.
Kez won free of the city keep and fled to the countryside, where he raised enough support to lay siege to the city. The Siege of Atlas lasted until the coming of Yorgash and his terrible children. They found Poseidonis ripe for plunder, for her strongest warriors were already dead. Thus did the hatred and bitterness of one man, who had sought the Gibborim, bring doom to his native isle.
***
Adah grew silent after the tale, sipping her tea, which was finally cool enough to drink.
Prince Ishmael was somber. “A sad story,” he said at last.
Adah sighed, and sipped her tea again. That was a long time ago, she told herself. Now what mattered was gaining Eden. Where was Eden? And was Tarag behind or ahead of them?
The wolf howled once more.
Prince Ishmael cocked his head. “He worships Elohim.”
Adah smiled. “Strange. I think that’s something Joash would have said.” She finished her tea and went to her tent. What had happened to Joash? She wondered if she’d ever find out.
Chapter Twelve
Radiance
When Moses came down from Mount Sinai... he was not aware that his face was radiant because he had spoken with the LORD. When Aaron and all the Israelites saw Moses, his face was radiant, and they were afraid to come near him.
-- Exodus 34:29-30
Joash marched with his hands shoved into his breeches pockets. He stared glumly at the shadowed ground. He muttered under his breath, calling himself a fool and a simpleton.
He understood that Tarag and Mimir had tricked him. It gnawed at him, galled him and made him angry. How could he have been so dull as to miss the significance of the fiery stone? His dreams had warned him, although he’d been unable to remember his dreams. Well, except for the one instance where he’d recited lines from the poem. Still, the feel of the potent dreams should have warned him. Why would Tarag have allowed him to search for the fiery stone, unless they needed his help? That they needed his help with the fiery stone had become painfully obvious.
He unslung his water-skin and took a refreshing drink. He took out salted jerky and thoughtfully chewed the stringy meat. The air was cool, the sun hidden by clouds. Pines rustled their needles. No squirrels chattered, no birds sang nearby, no insects buzzed. Ever since he’d become the bearer of the fiery stone, all sights and animal sounds had vanished. He no longer saw Tarag’s sabertooths or Yorgash’s giant pterodactyls. A day ago, high overhead, an eagle had screeched. At the sight of the fiery stone, the eagle had plunged out of sight. For just an instant, however, Joash could have sworn that he’d understood, or heard in his mind, the eagle’s thoughts.
He wondered if he was slowly going mad.
Since finding the fiery stone, his days had blurred. Ever since leaving the Valley of Dry Bones, the march toward Eden had been grueling and swift.
Tarag presently stretched in the long, lazy way that cats do. The adamant armor clinked, and the shield glowed. The huge First Born stepped near, and whispered, “Take out the stone.”
The nearby giants sat up, readying themselves. Their numbers, of those in the presence of the fiery stone, had dwindled over the days. Only three continued to endure as Tarag endured. In Joash’s presence, Tarag had told the three giants that he’d always known it would come down to a few brave Nephilim. Few, he knew, would have the iron in them to withstand the fiery stone, and thus, withstand the Cherub’s fully revealed celestial glory. The battle against the guardian Cherub would be a fight of heroes, not of masses of warriors. Which is why, Tarag had explained, he had only taken a small band of giants and Gibborim. The fight against the lone guardian was everything. The others, those who couldn’t withstand the celestial glory, would wait at the bottom of the mountain below Eden, to make sure that no humans interfered with the heroic fight. However, those few who fought and defeated the guardian Cherub, ah, they would first eat from the Tree of Life.
The giants had understood, as had Joash. Since only a few would fight and defeat the guardian, only a few would eat from the Tree of Life, and live forever. The others who would guard below—Tarag’s wicked grin had been enough to let them know that he had plans for those, and that those below would never eat from the Tree of Life.
Mimir now stood, his face sternly set. Young Hrungir, young for a giant at least, did likewise, then Motsognir Stone Hands. Only once had a Gibborim dared to step within the fiery stone’s radiance. Lersi had screamed in horrible agony, dropped to her knees and crawled away. The taint of necromancy had still stained her.
“Take out the stone,” Tarag whispered.
Joash reached into the heavy, mammoth-skin bag tied to his belt and pulled out a thickly wrapped object. The many layers of leather around the object were hot. He peeled them, one by one. The stone glowed with otherworldly brilliance. He couldn’t see his hands, because they were made invisible by the stone. In fact, he could barely feel the stone. He’d become numbed to it. He groaned, feeling small, dirty and worthless.
Tarag stared at the stone, as if facing a raging storm. Mimir held his right hand before his eyes. At times, he spread his fingers, so that like a child he could peek at the stone. Every time he did so, his teeth were clenched tightly, as if he was in pain. Hrungir breathed heavily, with sweat dripping from his face. Motsognir had a death’s smile, his huge hands clenched at his side.
“Lift the stone,” Tarag whispered.
Joash swallowed in a dry throat. His arms felt leaden, unwilling. He thought how wonderful the Creator had been to make the world, to make humanity and all the things humanity used. With his thoughts focused on div
ine things, he lifted the fiery stone before Tarag’s sabertooth-like snout.
“Ahhhh,” Tarag whispered. He didn’t move, didn’t look away and didn’t flinch.
In those moments, Tarag changed. His animal-ness melted away, the adamant armor shined hurtfully bright. He became terrible, almost otherworldly himself. Joash had the feeling then, that here was a being worthy of immortality, who deserved to be a god. Tarag the Great. Tarag the Glorious. Tarag the Light of the World.
As Joash thought those things, his arms trembled and the stone sank lower.
“No,” Tarag hissed. “Raise the stone.”
“Take it, Lord,” Joash whispered.
Tarag reached for the stone, the great hairy hand dwarfed Joash’s hand. But the First Born dared not pluck the fiery thing from Joash’s grasp.
Hrungir cried out and turned away. He refused, however, to stagger out of the stone’s radiance as others had done. Mimir groaned as if wounded. Yet still, he stared at the stone. Joash’s leaden arms lowered more. Tarag bent forward. Motsognir Stone Hands fell, as if stricken. A moment later, Mimir threw his arms before his eyes. At last, Tarag turned away.
Quietly, as if in the most holy church, Joash wrapped the leather rags around the fiery stone and returned it to the mammoth-skin pouch. The stone was heavy, now that he couldn’t see its shine. Now, however, he didn’t have to withstand the terrible glow, the awful holiness of it as he held it against his skin. He sat, and panted against the bole of a pine tree.
Much too soon for Joash, Tarag said, “Sound the horn.”
Motsognir Stone Hands lifted a horn of beaten silver and blew mightily, the blast echoing throughout the forest. The others now knew that it was time to march.
Helped up by Mimir, Joash strode after Tarag.
***
Two days later, Mimir bent down, and Joash climbed upon his massive back.
“Are you secure?” the giant asked.
Joash put his arms around Mimir’s neck. “I am,” he said.
Mimir stood to his imposing height. Joash gaped, alarmed. Surely, he’d break a leg if he fell from this far up. Mimir stepped into a ragging mountain stream. Hrungir waited on the other side. Motsognir Stone Hands brought up the rear. Like a child, Joash hung on tightly as the water boiled past them. He marveled at Mimir’s footing, and he hiked up his own feet lest they become wet.
“Thank you,” Joash said when he alighted onto the other bank.
Tarag led the way, then Hrungir, Mimir, Joash and Motsognir behind.
“I’m curious,” Joash said after awhile.
Mimir grunted.
“You just carried me on your back.”
“You’re full of insights today.”
“Isn’t that a slight to your honor?” Joash asked.
“Not any more,” Mimir said. “You bear the fiery stone.”
“I thought it beneath the dignity of Nephilim to carry a man as a servant would his lord.”
“Indeed, you’re right.”
Joash lifted his eyebrows.
Mimir chuckled, something he hadn’t done for some time. “Surely, you understand that everything has changed with you.”
“I’m still a man.”
“No. There you’re wrong. You’re the fiery stone bearer.”
“I’m a Seraph. For that reason, I can carry the stone.”
Mimir ran his fingers through his shaggy beard. His wet leather pants squelched as he trod downhill. Broken branches, and knocked down pine needles, marked the trail blazed by the anxious Tarag.
“I don’t think you’re right,” Mimir said at last. “You’re a very special kind of Seraph.” He grinned. “I don’t say this out of deference to your feelings. I say this because it’s the truth.”
Sudden understanding hit Joash. “You’re also affected? Being near the fiery stone is an awful burden. I can hardly endure it. If I were to speak a lie—No, lying is impossible near the stone. I’d feel too soiled. Maybe because the fiery stone once lay on Elohim’s Holy Mount, maybe that’s why I feel this way.”
“Who can know?” Mimir said guardedly.
“I’m certain this is so. But until now, I only thought it affected me that way. Now I see you too are affected.” Joash pondered for a moment, smiled. “I find that comforting.”
Mimir shrugged.
“In any case, we were talking about Seraphs.”
Mimir now seemed disinclined to speak.
“You said I was a special kind of Seraph,” Joash prodded. “Why did you say this?”
“Because you carry the fiery stone,” Mimir muttered.
“That doesn’t prove your point.”
“Maybe not,” Mimir said, “but I’ve known more than a few Seraphs. There are different rankings to your kind.”
“We all serve Elohim.”
Tarag hissed, glaring back at Joash.
Joash ignored it. He was no longer physically afraid of the First Born. Withstanding the fiery stone had left too little for him to fear others. It was as if the things of this world lacked their former urgency. The First Born and Nephilim seemed to understand this, though, for they made few demands upon him, other than bearing the stone.
“You Seraphs serve your master,” Mimir said slowly. “But each of you is gifted in various strengths. Lord Uriah has visions. Do you have visions?”
“Not like Lord Uriah,” Joash said, thinking back to his vision of Irad the Arkite. That had been done through the way of the Shining Ones, with select herbs, not while he’d been asleep and received a word from Elohim.
“There you are,” Mimir said.
“I fail to understand,” Joash said.
“Why do you not have visions? Lord Uriah has visions,” Mimir said.
“What do you see as my ability?” Joash asked.
Mimir snorted. “Your ability is clear. You’re hardheaded, as Lod was. You’re stubborn, as he was stubborn. I suppose one could say that comes from a strong faith in your master.”
Joash considered that. He wished he had met Lod.
Tarag growled under his breath, but he gave no command to be silent concerning use of the word Elohim.
“I don’t believe other Seraphs could hold the fiery stone as long as you have,” Mimir said. “I think Lod could have, although I wonder if there was too much blood on his hands for him to have done so. This is just supposition, of course, but I’ve been trying to delve into the nature of the fiery stone.”
“As have I.”
“I believe you,” Mimir said, with a smile. “I’ve asked myself why is it that only Hrungir, Motsognir and myself have been able to stand so close and for so long. Why cannot the Gibborim withstand its glory, or other giants? The reason is linked to the reason why the High One can endure its radiance best.”
“Because of his greater celestial heritage?” asked Joash.
“Exactly,” Mimir said. “And, because the High One has never delved into the art of necromancy.”
Joash mulled on that.
Mimir said, “There are certain actions that make the fiery stone harder to endure.”
“Like lying,” Joash said, in sudden understanding.
“You engage in useless prattle,” the huge First Born growled at them. “Save your breath for faster walking.” Tarag strode faster than before.
Joash blinked, and examined Tarag more closely. The First Born seemed bigger. Yes, the armor fit more snuggly than before. Or, had Tarag gained something from withstanding the stone’s radiance?
“Nephilim Mimir?” Joash asked. “Is Tarag larger than before?”
Mimir grimaced. “No, but he is changing. We’re all changing.”
“I’m not,” Joash said.
“You most of all,” Mimir said, seeming surprised by Joash’s statement.
“I’m not larger,” Joash said.
“Look at your hands,” Mimir said.
Joash saw nothing unusual about them. He shrugged.
“You can see the bones,” Mimir said.
<
br /> Joash looked at his hands again as he flexed them. Yes. It was as if his skin had become translucent. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
“And your face,” Mimir said, “it shines.”
“Impossible!” Joash said.
“You’re the fiery stone bearer. Don’t be surprised that being in its presence changes you, a human, more than it changes us.”
“I did not know.”
“How could it be otherwise?” Mimir pursed his lips, his forehead creased. “It’s as if the stone is purifying you.”
“It’s purifying all of us,” Hrungir said, who had eavesdropped.
“March!” Tarag growled from up ahead on a boulder.
Joash grew thoughtful. I must use this knowledge to my advantage, he told himself. He wasn’t sure how, but he cudgeled his wits for a way.
***
Herrek marched beside Sungara. Together, they followed Harn, who sniffed the forest trail. The faithful hound tracked his master, Joash. The men wore shaggy animal skins and wore out sandals at a prodigious rate. Herrek had healed considerably since the ordeal with the trolock. He was now as silent as Sungara, and had learned much forest-craft.
“We should send Harn ahead,” Herrek said, between strides, “to show Joash that we track him.”
“Time not right,” said the giant dwarf of a Huri.
“When?”
“Elohim show me,” Sungara said.
Nebo bands had crossed their path. By Sungara’s craft, they’d avoided the cannibals.
“What of the trolock?” Herrek asked hours later, as they crouched to eat roots by a babbling brook.
The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) Page 13