Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  The archaeopteryx had given Old Slow a name for the creature: cave bear. The wise old bird had also told him that there had never been a creature like that before. That cave bear was unique, a beast altered by magic.

  A few of the dire wolves had seen the monster several days ago. The wolves believed that big as the bear was that a hardy group of great sloths could slay it.

  That was wolf thinking, all right. Gang up and attack. Old Slow had never ganged up on anyone. But then again, since he had become the old bull, he had never faced creatures bigger than himself. The cave bear out there…

  The leopards had agreed with the wolves, which was a first. The reasons were easy to remember. The offspring of the celestials had strange powers. With enslaving magic, the offspring controlled creatures. The offspring had built that wooden palisade in a day and would shoot spines from it. Unlike porcupine spines, those spines killed.

  The leopards wanted revenge for the guardians slain several days ago. Old Slow just wanted the invaders gone. The cave bear would be a problem.

  The longer he stared at the stockade, the more Old Slow came around to the leopard plan. The stockade was similar to a sea turtle’s shell. To eat the soft meat, one had to crack the tough shell. To kill the two-legs, they had to crack the stockade. Old Slow believed he could tear down those upright logs. Let him get his claws hooked around one and down it would go. The problem would be timing, and if they should wait for more great sloths to arrive. The celestial offspring tore vines off the ancient galley. Once they floated the galley in the bay, it would be too late to stop them from reaching the sacred isle. There they would remove the magic-that-gave-animals-thought.

  The giant cave bear waddled into the stockade. Soon, the gate swung shut with a boom.

  Old Slow realized the attack might cost him his life. He was the king. He had to lead. He had to fight in the front. What he really wanted was to go home. He wanted to mate again, one more time before he died.

  A feeling of mortality rose up. Old Slow almost roared at the pain of it. Death was forever. Never again would he—he eased the branch back into place. What good did mooning about the attack do him? He had lived long. He had been king for many years. Now he must make certain that his sons and daughters would live aware, as he had lived aware all his life. He had to make sure the celestial offspring never floated the ancient galley in the bay. They could not be allowed to reach the sacred isle.

  Old Slow shuffled through the jungle, away from the enemy camp. It was time to make the final adjustments. Near dusk, they should attack after a hard day’s work for the two-legs. They should so this before his desire for life overcame his feeling of kingly responsibility.

  He still couldn’t believe the size of that cave bear.

  -3-

  Old Slow led the attack. Behind him, seven ponderous great sloths shuffled their paws sideways, tearing apart clods of grass and dirt. They bellowed. They moved like slow-motion rhinoceroses. Old Slow felt pride at their daring. Several were his sons and daughters, one was his granddaughter. The great sloths of the jungle would make sure that no two-legs ever again thought about entering their special land.

  The wooden fort reared before them. It was the shell protecting these soft-skinned, puny two-legs. Old Slow felt the defenders’ terror. The soldiers up there on the ramparts shouted back and forth. Some wore armor. Some were bare-skinned. Those tested bows. Old Slow had listened as crows had told him what bows and spines could do. Two-legs were always clever concerning their toys. They always used tools to aid them. They often laid traps, too. Today, as dusk settled, the wild animals of the jungle would trap the two-legs in their giant bolt-hole.

  Old Slow bellowed as if he charged a great bull in a mating fight. The sluggish blood in his veins surged with passion. He might die tonight. Many of the jungle animals might die. But he and they would make certain that no child of a celestial would survive the battle. The enemy was not going to take away their uniqueness.

  There! Old Slow could see clearly at this distance. The bare-skinned archers drew nearly invisible strings. The strings twanged. Spines flew. Old Slow turned his head. He hoped the others remembered to do similarly. Spines struck like wasps, and they bounced off his tough skin. Old Slow bellowed. Was that the best they could do?

  “Aim at their faces!” screamed a child of the celestials.

  Another hail of spines flew.

  A great sloth roared in anguish. Old Slow glanced back. Black Snout his dimwit son went down, with spines sticking out of his eyes. The lack-wit must have forgotten to turn his head as the archaeopteryx had told them to do. Black Snout crashed upon the sod and batted at his ruined eyes. He bellowed a terrified cry.

  The two-legs on the rampart cheered. They shouted triumphantly.

  Old Slow roared, spittle flying from his cavernous jaws. The heat of battle pounded in his brain. He charged the wooden palisade. Two-legs cheered at the blinding of his son. Spears flew at him. The ones that penetrated his hide simply drove him harder, made him even angrier. With a terrific jar, he crashed against upright logs. They shivered at the impact, and he heard wooden cracks and splinters. Two-legs screamed. Shield clattered against shield. Old Slow roared as he heaved himself up onto his hind legs. His massive claws scraped against the logs as he lifted his monstrous arms. On either side of him, the other great sloths smashed against the palisade. Old Slow felt the vibration in his paws.

  A soldier on the rampart waved a sword at him. The two-legs stood a foot above his head. Old Slow bellowed at the soldier. He raked his claws, caught the two-legs. Old Slow pulled, and the soldier tumbled over the top and crashed down outside. A great sloth beside Old Slow clouted the two-legs, smashed his helmet. That one wouldn’t give any more cheers.

  “Where’s our cave bear?” screamed a two-legs.

  Old Slow wanted to know what had happened to the leopards. They were supposed to time this exactly. He hooked his claws on the hacked point of an upright log. Then Old Slow exerted himself, pushed and pulled. He tried to loosen the log as if it was a rotted tooth.

  “They’re destroying the fort!” shouted a two-legs.

  “Bloodspillers! Form ranks!”

  On the ramparts, tough two-legs with shields and spears gathered on either side of Old Slow. They weren’t going to let him pull down the logs without a fight. Other sloths now rose up, and they too clutched logs.

  One great sloth screamed, with a spear driven into his throat.

  Two-legs cheered.

  Old Slow roared at them, the bastards, the naked apes with their unfair tools.

  Then the leopards arrived. The sleek, spotted beasts raced among the great sloths. With great bounding leaps and the use of their claws, the leopards climbed the fort’s wooden wall. The spitting great cats bounded among two-legs. Claws flashed. Two-legs screamed. One leopard yowled as a scimitar lodged in its side.

  “Archers!” shouted a two-legs.

  The leopards didn’t have tough skin. Bows and spines would prove deadly to them. Now, however, hawks and eagles dove out of the darkening sky. One screeched a banshee cry, its talons extended, raking unprotected flesh. With an anguished shout, a two-legs toppled off the rampart as a hawk tore out his eyes.

  More bows twanged. An eagle tumbled to its death. Most spines hissed skyward, however, hitting nothing. Now began a desperate battle as great sloths yanked and pushed at the upright logs. Some two-legs charged from upon the ramparts, hacked with their scimitars. Other two-legs went back to back and slashed at hawks, eagles and leopards. Dire wolves howled, packs of them waiting for the great sloths to smash a way into the stockade.

  A two-legs in silver chainmail charged with a leveled spear. Howling Bloodspillers followed behind him on the rampart.

  Old Slow worked his log. It was loose! If he could loosen two more like this one then he would hurl his bulk on all three and topple them into the enemy camp. Beside him worked another great sloth, his granddaughter. She was smaller than Old Slow, but quicker. />
  The two-legs in silver chainmail howled a war cry. Old Slow’s granddaughter raised her head. The two-legs hurled his spear. He hurled it with greater than normal two-legs strength. The spear went into her left eye, sinking deeply. She stiffened as a sad cry escaped her throat. She slid as if boneless against the logs that she had tried to loosen. She slid, her massive claws scraped against the rough wood as she thumped dead upon the cold ground.

  Old Slow spied the cheering, gloating two-legs with silver armor. He sensed the two-legs’ nature, realized that he had the blood of the celestials in him. Worse, that one had just slain his granddaughter. The offspring of a celestial had done it with an unfair tool just as two-legs always did. Two-legs always cheated, and then they gloated and strutted as if they were mighty bulls of the jungle. In his rage and grief, Old Slow sprang. He had never jumped like a quick beast in his life. It was a clumsy spring. Yet if lifted his hind feet off the ground as Old Slow hurled himself against the palisade. Lumber groaned, cracked and splintered explosively. Old Slow’s heavy molars clicked together as his lower jaw struck wood. The body blow against the wall knocked the wind from him. It also blasted the loosened logs inward. Old Slow, as if he were unconscious—unable to bellow because he couldn’t breathe—fell into the compound, the three fallen logs like a lowered drawbridge.

  The other great sloths roared. Old Slow had breached the tough outer shell. Huge dire wolves howled, racing for the opening. The other sloths, encouraged and emboldened by their king’s example, charged and shouldered each other to be next into the camp of the hated two-legs.

  -4-

  Old Slow stirred. His chest unlocked and he took a heaving breath. The stockade reeked of bloodshed. The screams, shouts and cries of pain told of bitter agony. Waves of hate, fear, delight and madness crashed against Old Slow’s senses. Wolves slew and died. Leopards wreaked havoc and twisted in death. A great sloth bellowed as spears bristled from him as if he was a giant porcupine. The swirling hawks and eagles patrolled the ramparts, unwilling to fly into the darkening valley of death that the inner fort had become.

  Old Slow groaned as he rose to his paws. The cave bear crept up on a different great sloth. Behind the shaggy monster followed a two-legs in black leathers. She held curved daggers. Old Slow hadn’t realized that bears fought with such stealth. He had figured the beast as a head-to-head battler. The bear rushed the great sloth who swatted two-legs to death. The mighty beast pounced like a leopard, landing on the great sloth’s back and bearing the smaller creature to the ground and biting its neck. It was brutal, quick and effective.

  It also lacked all honor.

  Old Slow bellowed. He would kill the cave bear. He would show it how to fight.

  His massive claws scraped across dirt as thousands of pounds of great sloth shuffled for the bear. The two-legs turned around. She wore a veil. She ran to the bear and touched his side. The bear glanced back at Old Slow. Then, as if in shame, the huge cave bear waddled for the disciplined knot of spearmen.

  The cave bear fled! It feared him. Old Slow shuffled faster as the red-armored soldiers set their shield wall. With them to protect him, the bear charged dire wolves, scattering the wolves as they feasted on fallen two-legs.

  Old Slow shuffled at the shield wall. He would scatter them as the cave bear scattered the wolves. He sensed that this was the critical moment. The fight could go one way or the other.

  Stars had appeared as night settled. Torches burned and lanterns shone. Old Slow breathed deeply. The stockade reeked of blood and cruelty. He arose onto his hind legs, over twice the height of a two-legs.

  The silver-armored warrior who had slain his granddaughter shouted at the shield wall of two-legs. The soldiers bore shields and spears, wore armor and listened to their leader. The silver-armored two-legs held a gore-dripping scimitar and wore a silver helmet.

  Old Slow bellowed and walked on his hind legs. He towered over the Bloodspillers. He swung a huge paw. A shield rose to intercept. The shield splintered, and Old Slow fell upon the two-legs. The others cried out. Only one rushed forward. It was the silver-armored warrior, the slayer of his granddaughter. That one thrust his sword. Old Slow took the thrust in his shoulder. Then he bore the celestial offspring to the ground. With bestial strength, Old Slow ignored the champion’s struggles. His foaming jaws found the two-legs’ throat and tore it out.

  A few two-legs, the bravest and boldest, charged Old Slow, shouting war cries. Others froze in terror. Some dropped their shields and spears and scrambled over each like frenzied ants.

  Old Slow went wild as bloodlust took over. Blades slashed his fur. Some bounced off his mail-thick hide. Some penetrated. All the while, he slew two-legs.

  Then the two-legs broke. They ran in terror.

  Old Slow bellowed, and he almost rushed after them. His nape hairs stirred, however. He sensed—the cave bear!

  Old Slow whirled around.

  The cave bear roared and leaped. He had a black tongue and bloodshot eyes. His claws were red and bigger than knives. He smashed against Old Slow and sought his throat. Old Slow met him fang to fang, which saved his life. Then the shock of thousands of pounds of muscled cave bear drove him off his feet.

  Old Slow tumbled. The world spun. He bellowed, sickened by fright. This had never happened to him before, not even as a cub. He scrambled, or tried to, and flopped onto his belly. Dizziness made it hard to use his limbs. The bear struck like a wolf then, snapping his teeth. Skin opened to the bone on Old Slow’s shoulder. Blood spurted. Old Slow caught his balance and blocked another teeth-slash with his own heavy fangs. He rose up finally, and one arm hung limply.

  The massive cave bear snarled, and he circled. Old Slow turned.

  The cave bear struck, but Old Slow batted his opponent away. The cave bear had silky grace compared to a great sloth. Old Slow had more weight. The bear was more of a carnivore, with that brutal meat-eater cunning.

  Five times the cave bear rushed in, snapping his teeth or flicking wicked claws. Four of those times, he drew blood. Old Slow reeled. In places, skin hung like flaps. He had never fought a creature like this, one almost as strong, nearly as big and twice as fast.

  He desperately sought a stratagem. As the cave bear rushed in for the sixth time, it came to Old Slow. It was a trick, used once on him by an old bull. It was the last time he had lost a mating fight. He had been stronger and faster then, but the old bull had been more cunning.

  The cave bear leaped in. Old Slow let the teeth sink into his flesh. He accepted it, swayed back and then brought his good arm down hard on the other’s neck. He rolled onto his back and twisted, and he twisted the cave bear, threw him. The bear bawled in terror as his massive bulk sailed rump-end up and his back flopped hard against the ground. Old Slow scrambled upon the cave bear and let his weight crush down. Then he widened his jaws and clamped onto the bear’s throat. He crushed skin and windpipe. The bear used his claws and ripped out blood and entrails.

  Old Slow shook his head savagely. Then he collapsed upon the mighty cave bear, exhausted by the loss of too much flesh and blood. He waited for the cave bear to roll him off and finish him, but that never happened. The cave bear was dead.

  But Old Slow was dying. His wounds were too many and awful. He looked up. The animals were winning. The two-legs had broken with the loss of their last champion.

  He had done it. He had defeated the invaders.

  His reign ended tonight, but the sacred isle remained untouched. He would like to have mated again, but he had fulfilled his charge as king. Here they would remain the animals-that-could-think.

  The Serpent of Thep

  Lod lived many years, and his youth passed in daring deeds as told in Lod the Warrior. Then Yorgash of Poseidonis captured him. Instead of killing the man, the First Born sent Lod to a galley bench as an oar slave, there to die in painful toil.

  Lod plied the oar for many a weary year. He became a legend in the gloomy holds, surviving as he’d once done as rat bait. Once agai
n, he received visions of fire and blood. Perhaps Elohim called to him, to return to His service as an avenging blade, or perhaps they were merely the delusions of a madman.

  Leviathan the gliding serpent, Leviathan the coiling serpent; he will slay the monster of the sea.

  -- Isaiah 27:1

  -1-

  Captain Eglon lumbered onto the pitching galley deck. He drew a scarlet cloak over blubbery shoulders and peered up at the pterodactyl. It floated like some obscene gull, a creature with a thirty-foot wingspan and an odd triangular head. Its vicious little eyes tracked his every move. On its left leg, remarkably similar to an ostrich’s, glittered a copper message tube.

  “Get me the beastmaster!” shouted Eglon. Fat enfolded his eyes and puffed around the iron rings on his fingers. He was a glutton, and ever since his elevation, he ate only the tastiest morsels and drank the choicest wines. They had lost a sailing week because he had lain in wait in the Uldor Channel. He claimed he waited until the winds shifted west. The rest of the crew had known it was for piratical reasons. Only after capturing a merchant ship of Iddo and taking aboard eighty barrels of fine Tarsh wine had he agreed to crawl up the coast where Yorgash gathered his war galleys.

  The Serpent of Thep rocked in the worsening sea. Its rotted timbers groaned and waves splashed through the lower-deck oar ports. Sun-darkened Vendhyan sailors wrestled the mainmast upright. Next, they used block and tackle and chanted as they raised the yardarm.

  With its incredible spread of leathery wings, the pterodactyl drifted onto the yardarm, settling like a crow onto a branch.

  “How long must I wait for the beastmaster?” Eglon bellowed.

  A lanky, hawk-faced youth wriggled out of the hatch and shrugged on a mammoth-hide jacket. He stumbled across the pitching deck, having yet to gain his sea legs.