Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  One bitter night Lod’s beloved departed Caphtor in company with her father’s armed servants. She made it safely to the evil canal city in the Hanun Delta, and there she paid the priests of Gog and begged the Oracle for a way to lengthen her father’s life.

  In the Temple of Gog she learned that this year her father would die…unless. Oh, the evil ones were cunning in their guile, using every artifice to trick and sway. Elohim was wicked, they claimed, His ways too harsh, obviously so if He took her father at such a young age.

  Bit by bit, week by week, the priests initiated her into the Order of Gog and she learned that pain and cruelty were the prices for magical healing. Evil burrowed into her heart. She departed Shamgar, and months after her departure, she met Lod again in Nine Walled Caphtor. Knowing none of this, Lod took her to him, crushing her in a fierce embrace. He kissed her eyes and mouth and he told her that never again would she leave him. She smiled softly as of old, and she took him to her father, healthy again and strong.

  But she was not the same, although at first Lod did not understand this. She had changed, and she no longer followed the ways of Elohim. She practiced deviant rites and at night called out to spirits. She was of the Order of Gog, a practitioner of Rope Rank, using her knotted cord to deliver pain and thereby pay the dread price that kept her father alive. Lod didn’t notice. For once in his life, he was in love.

  Bit by bit she tried to sway him from the path of Elohim. He would laugh and shake his head, and then he would scoop her into his arms. In time, before they became man and wife and against the wise laws of Elohim, he lay with her. Oh, his love was strong and passionate, and in her embrace he felt whole and she fired him so. She indeed was the maid for him.

  Then she secretly advanced to Whip Rank, and he noticed that the servants of her father’s house cringed in her presence and that they bore bloody welts upon their bodies. She spoke openly now against Elohim and urged him to go with her to Shamgar to petition the Oracle.

  “Do you mean pray to Gog?” he asked in rage.

  “He can pierce the mystic veil,” she said. “He will tell us our future.”

  “That is forbidden by Elohim.”

  “Look around you, Lod. Open your eyes. Elohim fears the First Born, and do you know why? Because He knows that we can become gods.”

  “You spout blasphemy.”

  “Think, Lod, think!”

  He did. His heart grew troubled and he left her even as he yearned for the soft touch of her body against his.

  She grew in evil as she defied the One who would have let her father die. She yearned to grow in power, to someday ascend in the Order until she became a goddess indeed, one equal to Elohim.

  Life lost much of its savor for Lod. The one he loved, the maid of his dreams, was gone.

  It was only during his years at the oar that understanding filled him. Elohim had fashioned a perfect garden for man and woman. But into Eden had slunk the serpent, the great deceiver. He had seduced humanity by his taunt: “You can be like Elohim.” In other words, you can become gods. With this promised plum Lucifer brought sin into the world, and with such black gifts the evil ones continued to tempt.

  Lod could have had his pretty…except that deceivers ever tempted and perverted sweet maids with lies. From that day his fury grew at those who had stolen his beloved. From that day his desire to strike back at those who had wounded his spirit expanded into a physical need. In his heart he declared war against them all, a war to the death.

  -12-

  With a weary heave of his arms, Lod and the others of his bench drew in the mighty loom until the counterweighted end rested in a Y-slotted piece of pine. The Serpent of Thep swayed with the roll of the waves, water sloshing in the bilge below. Slaves draped themselves over the giant oars, exhausted, spent from a night of manic rowing.

  Lod peered out the oar port. Land smudged the horizon. Then the harsh cry of pterodactyls jerked up his head. Through the latticework he watched a reptilian beast wheel overhead, sunlight glinting off its copper message tube. Another swept by, its cry filling the hold so slaves shouted in dismay. The snap of leathery wings told of the pet of Yorgash landing on the pterodactyl post.

  From on deck Captain Eglon bellowed orders.

  “The pterodactyl must bear a message,” whispered Zeiros.

  Through the oar port Lod searched for sign of the fleet. Spotting nothing, he lay down his head.

  Zeiros nudged him later as cooks passed out fresh bread and a hunk of meat to each rower along with a cupful of wine. Lod thoughtfully chewed the salted beef and nursed the wine with misgiving. Such tasty fare meant a sea battle. The meat was supposed to give strength and the wine to dull their aches and fears.

  He slept again and groaned in his sleep. He twitched and his face grew pale. Finally he woke, red-eyed, groggy and fiercely scowling. He lifted his shaggy head off the loom and rattled the rusted chains attached to his ankles.

  No slaves rowed. The entire hold rested. The wind drove the Serpent of Thep, the sail above billowing, lines tight and stretching with familiar creaks.

  “What do you see, my friend?” Zeiros said.

  Lod turned haunted eyes upon the usurer.

  Zeiros frowned. The purple bruises wrinkled upon his face. “Are you well? Did the meat upset you?”

  Lod peered at his hands. He had crooked fingers, callused, some of the fingernails cracked and broken, others black. With these ugly talons he had pulled the weighted oar ten thousand leagues. His hands were twisted lumps of bone and sinew, trained and beaten to one task: grip, hold and never let go. He flexed his hands. He squeezed his fingers into fists, listening to the knuckles crack. With a churning in his gut he pounded the giant loom once, twice, three times.

  The oar master looked up from his stool beside the kettledrummer.

  “Careful,” whispered Zeiros. He put warning fingers upon Lod’s forearm.

  Lod closed his eyes. The usurer’s fingertips were smooth. Lod bowed his head until his matted, filthy, long white hair swept against the oar.

  “They’re watching you,” whispered Zeiros.

  “Aye,” rumbled Lod. A terrible grin cracked his lips. His eyes snapped open. Madness shone in them. Dark knowledge swirled in those intense blue eyes. They had seen sights not meant for earthly vision.

  Fire. Blood. Slaughter.

  “Sit up,” Zeiros whispered in his ear. “The oar master points at you as he speaks with the commander of the guards.”

  Through his nostrils Lod drew a deep breath. The galley stink burned into him, filling his lungs, driving some of the madness from him.

  Like a bear, a bruin of the high mountains, he raised his head and squared massive shoulders. With an effort of will he blanked his face. He hooded the wild light that sought to leap out of his eyes, the windows to his soul. With ogrish slowness he stretched his muscled limbs and clamped his hands onto the wooden cleats.

  The oar master squinted at him. The commander of the guards whispered into the man’s ear. He hesitated and then nodded. Grinning, the commander of the guards strode down the aisle. His armor clanked. He adjusted the bronze clasp that protected the wrist of his sword hand.

  “You,” he said, jutting his chin at Lod.

  Lod stared straight ahead. He gave no sign that he had heard the soldier.

  “Slave,” snarled the commander of the guards.

  Ponderously, Lod swiveled his head. He refused to gaze into the soldier’s eyes. The knowledge in his own…

  The commander of the guards drew a wickedly sharp short sword. It had been Tartarus-forged and whetted with much slave blood. The soldier pointed at Lod. “No tricks, Brute. No sly fouling of the oars during battle. No bouts of craziness today.” The lean-faced commander scowled. “If you do such things or even think them I’ll hack off your hands.” He laughed. “I’ll hack off your feet, Brute. Then I’ll save you for the Gibborim. Let Lord Lamassu peel off whatever soul a monster like you has left and stuff it into his necromancer’s
skull. Do you understand me, you brute?”

  Lod gave a slow nod.

  “Right,” said the commander. “Just so we understand each other.” He hesitated, hefting the iron blade. Then he slid the short sword into its scabbard and marched back to the oar master.

  Lod shivered as sweat oozed from his armpits. His knuckles were ghost-white.

  Out of the corner of his eye Zeiros watched him. The usurer hissed, “Careful, friend. They’re still judging you.”

  Lod’s nostrils flared.

  Zeiros’ brow wrinkled. “What ails you? The fact that we’re about to enter battle?”

  Lod squeezed shut his eyes. The iron control that for years had sealed his lips now strained to its limit. Goosebumps pimpled his flesh. Around him, slaves stirred uneasily. Then the moment passed, and the tension in his gargantuan shoulders relaxed. Lod breathed deeply.

  Zeiros’ frown became more pronounced.

  Lod glanced sidelong at the usurer. He parted his lips. His shoulders hunched. He peered at the oar master, lowered his head and whispered in a harsh voice, “Elohim came to me in a vision.” He shuddered. “It was…terrifying. I am a worm. I am the dung of the Earth.” His lips closed. He clenched his jaws and his entire face tightened. In a hoarse whisper, he added, “Today judgment falls from the throne of Heaven.”

  -13-

  At a comment from the pilot, Eglon turned around. “No!” he shouted. “Pitch it off the side of the ship. Do you want to stave us? Are you so eager to become shark bait?”

  The soldiers grunted as they wrestled the catapult off the bow where they had been about to topple the naval machine onto the ram. They shuffled their feet, gasping, with their hands straining to hang onto the underside of the catapult. Then they rested the front part of the wooden base against the galley’s railing, now on the side of the ship.

  “One, two, three, heave!” shouted Eglon.

  The soldiers shoved, easing the catapult upward, lifting the back part of the base higher and higher.

  “Watch it, man,” said Eglon, using an ivory baton and slapping a soldier on the shoulder. “Step back now.”

  That soldier jumped out of the way as the catapult tilted up and over and toppled off the galley. With a splash it plunged into the sea.

  “That’s the last one,” said the pilot.

  Eglon shoved the baton into his sash. The bow area, the forward fighting deck, looked naked without the half-dozen catapults. The galley also rode higher in the water. The bow didn’t sag dangerously anymore.

  The pilot sidled nearer. “What do you think it means that we’ve tossed our catapults overboard?”

  Eglon scowled, wrapping pudgy fingers around the pilot’s arm. “Who are you to question me, little man? Eh?”

  The black-bearded pilot winced painfully. “I meant no disrespect, Captain.”

  Eglon released the lice-ridden pilot, wiping his palm on his silky breeches. He spat onto the planks. “If Lord Lamassu treats me like a dog, if he makes me oversee these wretched tasks, I am still the captain.”

  The pilot nodded as he massaged his arm.

  Eglon’s vast stomach grumbled and gurgled. He yearned to eat, and yet his appetite had fled. What did shoving the catapults overboard mean?

  “The galley will be more maneuverable,” the pilot said. “We’ll be faster.”

  “And less able to defend ourselves,” Eglon said. “I don’t like it.”

  Together, they brooded upon their fate.

  Then a hunched sailor clinging to the top of the mast cried out. The sail billowed and the small Vendhyan swayed above it. His brown-skinned feet rested on twin wooden spurs as his crooked fingers clung to the very tip of the mast. While he was a wretched man, dressed in a loincloth, he had the eyes of an eagle.

  “The fleet!” shouted the Vendhyan. “Three degrees to starboard is the fleet.”

  Another Vendhyan at the tiller shoved against it.

  Eglon and the pilot stepped to the bowsprit where below the ram churned the waters. In the distance rose land. Before that, black specks stained the sea, the fleet of Yorgash.

  “Notice the water, Captain,” the pilot said.

  Eglon scowled at the choppy sea. Since last night he had become thoroughly sick of it. He hated this watery existence. “What are you babbling about?”

  “The brown tint, Captain,” the pilot said.

  Eglon peered at the sea and shook his head.

  “There are brown streaks in the water. It’s churned mud from the Hiddekel River. The river pours its silt-filled waters into the sea. It proves that we approach the great city of Larak.”

  Eglon cared nothing about that. Would he survive the battle? And if he survived, what did Lord Lamassu plan for him? Would the Gibborim blame him for circling the sunken galley? Did the hateful child of Yorgash mean to skin him alive and stuff his soul into a necromancer’s skull? He drew a rag and dabbed his sweaty cheeks. His stomach gurgled. Food, food, he must have food.

  Eglon paced the bow deck. Every so often he glanced at the captain’s quarters, where Lord Lamassu and his harlot stirred not. Neither did any foul arts blacken his former hut.

  The archers and soldiers said little. The night of the kraken had terrified them. They sat listlessly in groups, dicing halfheartedly. This was a haunted galley. It stank of death, doom and wretched destruction.

  It time the fleet spread out before them. One hundred and twenty galleys drifted in the sea. All had taken down their masts, while punts plied between ships. The fleet held a rough crescent formation, with the bulk of the galleys in the center block. The open part of the crescent was aimed toward shore. There in the distance rose the ivory-colored walls of Larak. Smudges of smoke hung over the city. The army of Yorgash sat outside its walls in siege.

  Screeching pterodactyls wheeled above the fleet. At times a few landed on certain decks. Those then winged to the Serpent of Thep, each with a stout fiber bag gripped in its talons. The harlot appeared. Without a word, her face a painted mask, she took each bag and brought the hidden contents to Lord Lamassu. Some of the reptilian beasts flew lazily toward Larak, perhaps spying on the progress of the enemy fleet.

  As the Serpent of Thep inched toward the armada of Yorgash, a flock of pterodactyls hurried from Larak.

  The pilot shaded his knowledgeable eyes.

  Eglon paused, resting from his pacing. “What do you make out?”

  “A fleet,” whispered the pilot. “I see the fleet of Larak, and no doubt that of Eridu, too.”

  -14-

  Two wooden herds glared at each other across the choppy waters. The sun rode high, reflecting its cloudless light off the scintillating sea.

  To seaward drifted the fleet of Yorgash. Many of its galleys were unpainted and therefore greenish because of the newly cut pine logs used in their construction. The galleys brimmed with soldiers wearing bronze helms that gleamed like gold and holding glittering swords that shone with the bright sunlight. Each ship bristled with catapults and ballista. Three monster galleys led each block, the center formation the largest, the two horns of the crescent half again as large.

  The opposing fleet was composed of two unequal parts. The yellow-painted galleys of Larak maneuvered smartly. They were sleek and slender compared to the wallowing hulks of Yorgash. Their rams shone golden, sheathed in polished brass. Two lines made up the Larak Fleet. In a checkerboard pattern they advanced upon the invaders. The other, smaller half of the fleet was painted black. Those ships were larger than the Larak galleys, even larger than those of Yorgash. Upon those decks also bristled soldiery and there too catapults abounded.

  One small part of the fleet of Eridu detached itself from those big galleys. These vessels were smaller, and from them projected brass tubes. They were seven of them. Alone they surged, their oars moving rhythmically to drumbeat.

  “The fire ships of Eridu,” whispered the pilot.

  The seven vessels moved ahead of the fleets of Larak and Eridu and approached the crescent formation
of Yorgash. Then the fire ships spread out, giving each other room.

  To greet them, yea, to meet them, a lone galley from the fleet of Yorgash set out.

  For the last several hours pterodactyls had landed with fiber bags and left them with the Serpent of Thep. At the harlot’s orders sailors had erected a tarp above the forward fighting deck. Eglon, at the harlot’s bidding, had huffed and puffed before his watching archers and soldiers. He had carried the tripod, the brazier and a large sack of coal, he supposed. He had set up the brazier on the forward fighting deck and now awaited Lord Lamassu.

  Cold sweat slicked Eglon’s skin. His belly rumbled and the planks he stood on groaned. He wore bronze plate armor upon his torso. His beloved scimitar hung at his side. In place of a turban he wore a helmet. It gave him the appearance of a bloated beetle. He squinted in the sunlight, folds of fat almost hiding his beady eyes.

  The archers tested their bowstrings, the sounds humming about the galley. Each chose his best arrow. Soldiers hefted heavy shields and drew their swords. Others greased spears, larding them just below the wickedly sharp spearheads. If an enemy dared grab such a spear, he would be in for a shock and probably a gutting. Sailors with buckets tossed sand onto the deck. The sand was meant to soak any spilled blood and help men keep their footing on a gore-slippery deck. Other sailors readied buckets of oil to heave, in order to drench enemy decks.