Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  “I gave you no leave to move,” whispered Lord Lamassu.

  Eglon threw himself onto the deck, groveling and whining for mercy.

  “There is a semblance of wisdom in this one,” the harlot said.

  “No,” Lord Lamassu whispered. “It is base cunning you witness. He thinks himself clever. It is stamped upon him as if he wore a fox’s pelt. Perhaps that is what so amused the Master, or maybe that he is so obese. I could dine a week on him, perhaps nine days if I kept him alive for the first several carvings.”

  “And yet he is so quick,” said the harlot, “almost nimble. There is a nicety of obscenity to it. The fact of his nimbleness bespeaks great strength. How else can he heave his lard so quickly one way and then another?”

  “My pet, you anger him.”

  The harlot laughed, a brazen sound, as she knelt beside Eglon and grabbed a handful of his jowls. “Not so clever after all,” she said, “Just another boar with rutting instincts. A pity,” she said with a sigh, wiping her hand on his raiment.

  “Rise,” whispered Lord Lamassu.

  Eglon scrambled to his feet, keeping his eyes riveted onto the Gibborim’s black boots.

  “You will turn your vessel south, hog, and move us with haste until I say otherwise.”

  Eglon dipped his head.

  “The offending archer… Trail him in the sea as shark bait. Let your beastmaster—”

  Eglon shuffled his feet.

  “Yes?” whispered Lord Lamassu, menace oozing from him.

  “We have no beastmaster, Your Excellency.”

  “Ah,” whispered Lord Lamassu. “Did he have a tragic accident?”

  The leaden weight in Eglon’s gut twisted into terror. Moisture fled his mouth, leaving him unable to eject words.

  “Speak, hog,” said the harlot, prodding him in the belly.

  “H-he fell from the yardarm, Your Excellency.”

  “Did he now?” whispered Lord Lamassu, “How odd.”

  Eglon tried to work his mouth in order to explain. He couldn’t. Sweat trickled into his eyes.

  “It matters not,” whispered Lord Lamassu “—for now.”

  Eglon almost collapsed in fright.

  “Use the offending archer as shark bait,” whispered Lord Lamassu, “and when the beasts arrive and begin to feed make sure to line up your soldiery to watch. I detest this simian curiosity, this staring at their betters. I will cull it from this herd. But if that does not suffice…perhaps you will next trail as bait, but not for sharks, my bloated buffoon.”

  The harlot laughed.

  “Go,” whispered Lord Lamassu. “Attend to your tasks. And make certain that your cleverness does not interfere with your obedience. Your fate has been set by Unrelenting Yorgash, and nothing you do can alter it.”

  -9-

  Eglon paced the stern deck beside the pilot plying the tiller. Subdued archers and soldiers sat in clumps about the galley, whispering and casting fearful glances at the captain’s cabin. The sun sank into the western horizon, producing long, menacing shadows. They were alone in the vast sea, a small island of rotten, creaking wood, alone but for the triangular fins cutting the waters behind them. The screaming archer had lasted a scant minute once the first shark had taken an arm. There had been blood, rabid churning and the sight of thirty-foot monsters. During the proceedings a few archers had betrayed their unease with twitchy fingers, as if they planned to string their bows and sink shafts into the sharks. Hard looks from bronze-armored soldiers, those who had served before with Gibborim, had dampened such mutinous thoughts. Now the archers sat ashen-faced, mumbling among themselves, forgoing their usual banter or the rattling of dice.

  Whistles trilled from below. Giant oars slid against wood as the slaves drew them inward. Other slaves pushed out their oars. The changing of the watch had come.

  Eglon turned to the pilot. “Is this why we braved the open ocean? Is this why I hurried to Iribos?”

  The pilot shook his head. “It was to forgo impalement, to avoid singing the paean of pain.”

  Before Eglon could respond, an eerie moan emanated from the captain’s cabin. Wood rattled and a harsh red light poured through the chinks between the boards. The hellish glare startled the soldiery, many crying out and pointing. The moan became a high-pitched scream, but not one a woman would make. It grated on already tense nerves. The shadows nearest the cabin flickered as if with infernal life. The scream lasted too long. It stretched impossibly, and then the wicked light snapped off and the scream died. Silence and returning gloom lent a sinister air to the Serpent of Thep. The mumbling had quit as men waited expectantly, many holding their breath.

  “Necromancy,” whispered Eglon.

  “Skull magic,” said the white-faced pilot.

  Eglon peered at the captain’s cabin. What if flames truly lit the rotted wood? What if his quarters and those within burned? And lose all that hard-won plunder, he asked himself. Yes! If through it the Gibborim died. Eglon licked his lips and with clammy hands adjusted his turban. Better to not even think such thoughts. Gibborim divined secrets by their arts, by their inhuman cunning. Better by far to play the buffoon. And die?

  “Do you know his plan?” whispered Eglon, unable to hide the quaver in his voice.

  The pilot eyed him sidelong. “He has not made me privy to his secrets, no.”

  Eglon moistened his lips. “How do you think we shall defeat the fire ships of Eridu?”

  The pilot scratched his curly black beard. “Hadn’t given it much thought. By magic, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” whispered Eglon, “black magic, necromancy, the summoning of—”

  A creak of wood stilled his speech.

  Motion ceased from the clumps of hunching soldiery. Every archer, swordsman and Vendhyan sailor turned toward the cabin. Out stepped the harlot. Tears streaked her painted face. Fear, stark and wild, twisted her beauty into an ugly mask. It profaned her smooth limbs, aging her. Like a sleepwalker, a somnambulist under spell, she closed the door and shuffled to Eglon.

  There was no mockery twinkling in her eyes, no sneer upon her blood-red lips. She seemed glazed, drugged and her mouth twitched. “You are…” She frowned, and then understanding lit her eyes. “Head due west, and make haste. Time…” Her shoulders trembled. “We have little time left.”

  “He summons the kraken?” Eglon asked.

  Her eyes widened. Then a touch of her old haughtiness returned. “Do not question me, hog. Obey. That is your only concern. Take this galley and head due west.”

  Schooled in the Master’s court, Captain Eglon simply dipped his head.

  With an even more leaden step than before, the harlot returned to the captain’s cabin, disappearing within, the door closing with a snick.

  “Kraken?” whispered the pilot.

  “Captain!” shouted a barefoot sailor. The small man ran the length of the galley to them, panting as he said, “There’s a vessel dead ahead, Captain. One of ours, I think, wallowing in the sea.”

  Eglon grabbed the small Vendhyan, making the man wince. “Show me! Hurry, go!”

  The sailor scampered ahead with Captain Eglon lumbering behind. Archers at the prow hastily moved out of the way. Eglon squeezed between several newly placed catapults and peered where the sailor pointed. The long shadows and sinking sun made it difficult to see, but Eglon made out the almost submerged galley. Some men splashed about it in the waters. Some stood upright upon the deck awash with waves. Others clung to the mast. The wretches shouted and waved, their voices drifting over the darkening sea.

  “Do we pick them up?” the pilot asked.

  Eglon jerked around. “Pick them up? Are you mad? Lord Lamassu has ordered us west?”

  “Then they’re dead men,” the pilot said.

  Eglon gaped at him. “Yes! They’re already dead. But we’re not.”

  “Seems obvious,” muttered the pilot.

  “Don’t you see?” Eglon cringed, his great blubbery shoulders hunching as he eyed the captain�
��s cabin. Then he yanked the pilot to him and began to whisper fiercely into his ear. Eglon planned to deceive the Gibborim by traveling in a miles long circle instead of heading west. One way or another, he intended on surviving.

  -10-

  The stars shone overhead as a cold wind blew across the Gulf of Ammon. Choppy waves slapped against the Serpent of Thep as the giant oars continued to dip.

  With an eerie creak, the cabin door opened. Out stepped the harlot with a woolen cloak draped over her shoulders and an octopus-shaped lantern swinging from her hand. The flame showed her lascivious features to be as haughty as when she had first boarded ship. She had repainted her face, and now she shouted, “Bow before Lord Lamassu! Abase yourselves and stare not at his glory.”

  Archers, soldiers, sailors, everyone vied with Eglon to be first as they threw themselves prostrate. The rattle of the harlot’s lantern was soon the only noise except for the wind humming between taut ropes. Even the rowing-hold kettledrum had fallen silent, all the oars drawn in and the slaves at rest.

  “Captain,” whispered Lord Lamassu, his voice as poisonous as ever.

  Eglon groveled full-length upon the planking, his heart laboring hard and his breath a wheezing sound. He hadn’t heard the Gibborim’s approach. At times they moved as soft as a cobra slithering upon a sleeping man.

  “You will assist my pet, Captain.”

  Eglon heaved himself upright, sick with fright that Lord Lamassu would pierce his disobedience, that the Gibborim would discover his artifice. Fortunately, his time spent in the Master’s court now kept Eglon from collapsing in terror. Only one of iron nerves and constitution could long survive in the Master’s company. The evil corrupted, leeching one’s humanity. But a person who could cavort and comment wittily while under the Master’s pitiless gaze could function while terror squeezed his heart.

  “Come,” said the harlot.

  Eglon followed her into his cabin. She pointed at a large bronze brazier, her gesture clear. Grunting as he picked it up. The bronze was warm, and oily ashes stained the center. He lugged the massive bowl to where Lord Lamassu stood frowning out to sea. At this Eglon’s scrotum shriveled. He set down the bowl and hurried after the commanding harlot. At her orders, he picked up a bronze-limbed tripod as she gingerly lifted a necklace strung through three human skulls. Eglon almost dropped the tripod when a distant scream, one of terrible agony, seemed to thread through his mind. It seemed as if the scream originated from one of the skulls and was not truly an audible sound, but an ethereal wail of despair.

  Trembling anew, but this time with a sick fear of the supernatural, he staggered after the harlot, recalling hushed whispers spoken in a lonely tavern in Mangalore. There a broken old beggar had horrified him with tales of necromancy. Hideous torture, exquisitely dispensed by the most skilled of practitioners, allowed the necromancer to flay portions of a human soul and invest it into a skull as a banker deposits coins into an account. The necromancer later used this soul investment to conjure with, a sinister and wicked power, evil and demonically twisted and highly dangerous.

  Eglon set the tripod near Lord Lamassu. At the harlot’s orders, he hefted the heavy bronze brazier upon it.

  “What is that I see in the distance?” the Gibborim whispered.

  Eglon spoke despite the parchedness to his mouth and the painful thuds of his racing heart. “Lord, it is a galley.”

  “Men swarm upon its watery deck,” whispered Lord Lamassu. “Sharks circle it.”

  Eglon could no longer see the galley, but he wasn’t surprised that the Gibborim could. Yorgash’s children saw in the dark much better than a man could, akin to bats in their ability. As the silence lengthened, Eglon’s heart fluttered and agony lanced his chest. Did Lord Lamassu realize that instead of heading due west they had been widely circling the galley for hours? Eglon wheezed, with his face turning white and weakness dragging his arms. Oh, it hurt to breathe. His heart raced and his eyes seemed to bulge outward.

  “The galley is sunken,” whispered Lord Lamassu.

  Eglon blinked rapidly, trying to regain his wits, trying to explain.

  Lord Lamassu turned toward him.

  “Excellency,” whispered Eglon, “g-galleys are mostly wood. It will only truly sink once it smashes upon rocks or a storm breaks it apart.”

  “No,” whispered the Gibborim, “there is a third alternative.” A strange smile stretched those thin lips, a smile that made the nape hairs stir on Eglon’s neck.

  Lord Lamassu turned to the harlot and took the skull necklace from her hands, and with a clattering of bones he draped it over his head.

  Unbelieving at the success of his plot, Eglon stepped back. In a daze he watched Lord Lamassu stroke the skulls, hissing to them in sibilant speech.

  Suddenly the Gibborim flinched as if a whip had struck him. His mouth gaped and he shivered in something near ecstasy. Lord Lamassu seemed to expand, to swell and grow in vibrancy. He raised his arms, and it appeared to Eglon that ghostly, silently shrieking forms swirled out of the skulls and whirled around and around the taut necromancer. Lord Lamassu laughed as a god might in jest at the schemes of puny humanity. He scooped hot coals from a box at his feet, holding them in his marble-white hands. They radiated an eerie glow, illuminating his face, making his black eyes blaze with madness. With an imperious gesture he flung the coals into the brazier. They exploded with sparks, and puffs of greasy smoke whooshed upward.

  Eglon staggered from the stench, viler than any in the rowing hold.

  Lord Lamassu began to scream a chant. Awful and weird it rose, diabolic in its undulating rhythms. With arms outstretched and head flung back, the Gibborim wove a web of fierce enchantments. A terrible, dreadful feeling of evil radiated from him like heat. A sickening thing, it induced terror as if the dead rose and walked among them.

  Men groaned and wept all around the chanting Gibborim. Many clapped their hands over their ears. A few, with wild eyes, foamed at the mouth as they leapt overboard. They swam with frantic strokes but were struck from underneath, disappearing in a swirl of teeth and blood, dragged down into the inky depths.

  How long this chant continued was impossible to tell. On and on it went, reducing the crew to a pitiful state and exalting Lord Lamassu to necromantic heights. The dark majesty of his evil became unbearable. Men groveled in abject terror as if one of the bene elohim descended from the celestial sphere and walked among them.

  Then a hideous cry almost beneath human hearing issued from the darkness. Lord Lamassu laughed victoriously.

  Eglon, from where he clutched the mast, squinted into the starlit night.

  Strange, awful sounds came from where he had last seen the wallowing galley. A vast, colossal shape darker than the starlit night seemed to rise out of the depths. Eglon blinked and squinted harder, and he moaned. Was it his imagination or did he see huge tentacles that reached higher than the ship’s mast? From the submerged galley came horrified shouts of terror, gibbering men calling upon their gods and wailing desperately. It availed them naught. There came sounds of explosively splintering wood, shrieks and heavy things slapping the water with terrific force.

  “O Kraken!” chanted Lord Lamassu. “Heed me, monster of the Deep! Follow me this night to a feast of blood!”

  More hideous sounds emanated from lost seamen, and the galley’s destruction in a smashing of wood. It was a terrible and dreadful noise to listen to in the middle of the Gulf of Ammon.

  Then Eglon became aware of the harlot at his elbow. Her fingers dug into his flesh as she hissed, “As you value your life, man, turn this galley around.”

  He stared at her dull-eyed and uncomprehending.

  “Fool! This is our one chance. Lord Lamassu is in disgrace. He was to sacrifice himself and thereby bring the kraken nearer for others more gifted to call. But your hog cunning has aided him, as he knew it would. Oh, do not be misled, man. He knew that you would deceitfully circle the half-sunken galley, hoping to sacrifice it instead of yourself. But wh
at do you think he will tell the Nobles Ones if they ask him what occurred?”

  Understanding filled Eglon and the horror of his position. Had he saved himself from a relatively clean death at the kraken’s tentacles in order to end up in prolonged agony on a necromancer’s flaying table?

  The harlot laughed. It was an ugly sound. “Someone will surely feast on you, hog, for you are doomed. But if you would scheme another night we must stay ahead of the kraken while we are able.”

  Eglon jumped as if branded by a hot iron. He lumbered to the rowing hatch, bellowing orders into the hold as he crashed down the steps.

  A moment later whistles trilled and out slid the giant oars.

  -11-

  As the other slaves cowered and curled around the giant oars, clinging to them as the Gibborim screamed-chanted his evil, Lod’s lips writhed with a snarl and his blue eyes blazed. He knew that the necromancer opened forbidden gates. This Lord Lamassu used unholy deviltry and drew up into the world things better left hidden in the depths.

  With all his being Lod loathed and hated the children of Yorgash. They were the offspring of those called First Born, themselves the product of a union between the daughters of men and the bene elohim, the “sons” of the Most High, fallen angels from Heaven who had taken on the guise of flesh in order to rule and wreck this world. At the very dawn of time Father Adam and Mother Eve had fallen to the seduction of Lucifer, and so humanity had been hurled from paradise. Fallen angels and their ilk ever plagued mankind, tempting, scheming, lying and cheating in order to draw humanity deeper into sin so they too would suffer in the fires of eternal Sheol. Not content with their deserved fate, the evil ones forever sought the destruction of others.

  So Lod had long ago learned. But there had been a girl, a dark-haired beauty with a laughing mouth, a vivacious pretty with soft hands and eyes that had melted his frozen heart. He had wooed her in the days he had been captain of the Guard of Caphtor. He had been a bold swordsman, the greatest in the Nine Walled City. He had bidden her to become his wife, and he was certain that she would have agreed. But her father sickened, and she went to the Temple of Elohim, there to pray for his healing. He worsened and she grew bitter. The family was not of Caphtor, but from the eastern shores of the Suttung Sea to the north, from the city of Pildash. There men worshiped Gog the Oracle, a First Born son of Magog. Secretly, her father begged her go to Gog, to pay the First Born to gaze into his future and tell him if there was hope or if he must soon die.