The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Lod shouted, and he leaped. In that moment, he forgot his training. Lod swung his shield out of position and he slashed with his short sword. The blade rang against Barkos’s shield. The numbing shock to Lod’s fist startled him. The shock climbed to his shoulder. It brought him back to his senses. Lod jumped away. He backpedaled and brought his shield in front of his body where it belonged.

  A strange sigh floated down from the crowd.

  “By Moloch,” Barkos said. “You move like lightning, slave. It’s a good thing you have no idea how to use your weapon.”

  Then Barkos closed. For all his bulk, he was smooth. Barkos used a minimum of motion. He bashed his shield against Lod’s shield. Barkos bashed cunningly, once, twice, thrice. Sometimes Barkos shifted Lod’s shield one way, sometimes Barkos knocked Lod back. After every bash, Barkos’s short sword flickered like a snake’s tongue. The blades rang as Lod parried. Lod felt the vibration in his hand. It made him clutch his sword harder. Lod dodged. He backpedaled. He twisted. He brought his shield back into position. Barkos kept attacking. The veteran pit slave had a hundred tricks and kept Lod continually off-balance. Barkos was relentless, pitiless and perhaps even stronger than Lod. Barkos slammed Lod’s shield and his sword came over the top. The point thrust at Lod’s eyes. Lod jerked his head back. The sword tip clanged against his brass mask. It dented the metal and broke through. It cut Lod’s cheek. He leaped away. Barkos advanced. Bash, cut, bash, thrust, bash, bash, bash. Lod staggered, panted. He could hardly see. The dent had skewed the eyeholes. Lod’s face throbbed with pain.

  The roar of the crowd was a dull noise. Yet it beat at Lod’s senses. His breath came in muffled gasps. He needed air. His helmet was a suffocating trap.

  Barkos snaked in his sword. Lod’s skin parted as he twisted aside. Hot pain seared his ribs. Blood dripped and quickly soaked Lod’s loincloth.

  The maddened, mass shouts from above were like animals baying for Lod’s blood.

  Lod roared and slammed his shield against Barkos’s shield. The shock numbed Lod’s shoulder, but it made Barkos stagger backward. Lod should have followed. He should have attacked. Instead, Lod knelt and dropped his sword. He clawed at the helmet’s thick strap. Lod bellowed in rage and with a desperate desire for air. The strap tore. Lod flung off the helmet and shook his white locks free. He drank precious air in great heaving gulps.

  Lod grabbed the sword and rose against Barkos. They circled. Lod’s blood dripped onto the sand. He bled for the amusement of Nephilim. That angered him.

  “We don’t have to be slaves,” Lod said.

  Barkos attacked, and tried to hook Lod’s shield with his. Lod’s superior speed saved him at the last moment.

  “We can die free,” Lod said. “We can refuse to obey.”

  Barkos faked a shield bash. Lod shifted. Barkos used that and came in around the exposed side. Then another cut dripped with blood, this one in Lod’s thigh. He snarled at Barkos’s cunning.

  “That will slow you down,” Barkos panted.

  It hurt Lod to put weight on that leg.

  “The First Born isn’t a god,” Lod said. “We must stand up against them.”

  Barkos laughed harshly and blew out drops of sweat. “I’m going to kill you, slave. You can’t talk your way out of that. Now shut your mouth and fight!”

  Lod nodded grimly. Then he realized that sweat dripped from Barkos’s face, and he remembered the Games Master’s words. That acted like a tonic, and Lod attacked. He faked a shield bash, copying Barkos’s tactic. The thick pit slave flinched. Lod jumped to Barkos’s blind side—if what the Games Master had told him was true. Lod tried to curl his body around the edge of Barkos’s shield, and he thrust. Barkos groaned. Lod’s short blade sank into the pit slave’s side. Lod wrenched the blade free. Blood gushed out. Lod backpedaled. Barkos’s thick legs buckled. He collapsed onto the sand.

  Lod licked his salty lips and looked up at the crowd.

  Grim bearded faces stared at him. The giants glowered. By the stars, how Lod hated them. They were merciless warriors, strong as mammoths and filled with evil cunning. One of them could slay hundreds of men. Lod had heard stories about their exploits. They were arrogant, but they were mighty. They also knew foul magic and secrets concerning metals and forging. One of them, maybe one in the stands, had slain Argus.

  Lod’s hatred of them, his joy at victory, having lived with Argus’s death for months, something compelled him. Lod strode toward the giants and shook his bloody sword. One of the Nephilim had slain an innocent lad. One of them had cut down a lad who had possessed an incredible skill. Lod defied the giants. He could only die once, and he would do it on his feet, with a blade in his hands. His greatest wish was that he could cut one of them in the process, let the giants know that some men would never cower before them and never accept their infernal reign.

  The half-Nephilim higher up on the tiers shouted in outrage at Lod’s display. They lacked their fathers’ bulk, but they were still bigger than normal men. They, too, had the blood of the bene elohim, although less than their fathers’ did.

  The humans on the highest tiers, the moneylenders, the harlots, weavers, bakers and metalsmiths began to shout for Barkos’s death. Likely, they had wagered on him. Many might have staked their fortune, and had lost it. They sounded furious.

  A trumpet blared.

  Lod turned toward the box. Sweat mixed with blood and dripped onto his bare feet. His thigh hurt. His cheek throbbed and his left side felt greasy slick.

  The First Born addressed his beauties. Several leaned over the edge of the box to glance at Barkos. As they bent to look at him, they exposed their breasts to Lod, the sweet curvature of their thighs and their sleek bellies. They wore sheer silks, less than enough to stanch Lod’s bloody wounds. They tinkled with gems, with sparkling jewels. Their painted eyes and rouged lips… they were the most beautiful women Lod had ever seen. One of them raked him with a haughty glance. She parted her blood-red lips. She blew Lod a kiss. Then she turned back toward the First Born.

  Lod could not hear her words, but he saw that Moloch listened. The First Born nodded, and he turned to the herald, spoke several words. The herald strode to his dais, climbed it and raised his voice.

  “The outlaw has won the bout. By the decree of Divine Moloch, he has won his life. First, however, he must dispatch the failed slave.” The herald looked down at Lod. “Kill the pit slave, beast. Seal your victory by hacking off his head and displaying it to our glorious god.”

  Numbed by the decree, Lod turned to Barkos. The pit slave had risen up onto one arm. Barkos’s helmet lay beside him. His heavy features were white with pain. Blood poured from between his fingers where he tried to stanch the terrible wound.

  “Make it swift,” Barkos said in a hoarse voice.

  Lod blinked stinging sweat out of his eyes. Was he supposed to kill Barkos in cold blood? Just stroll up to him and hack off his head? Lod looked up at Moloch. The First Born stared down. Fear prickled Lod’s belly. He turned away from Moloch, away from the watching beauties that surrounded the First Born’s throne. Instead, Lod stared at the giants. He hated them. He was supposed to kill for their amusement. That would be a form of living on his knees. He had no grudge against Barkos. Yes, he’d fought to live. Should he now hack off Barkos’s head to survive?

  Even here, on the hot sands of the stadium, life was precious. Lod squeezed his sword hilt. He took a deep breath and looked again at Barkos.

  “It’s not so hard.” Barkos lifted his chin. “Cut my throat first. Then hack off my head. If you try to hack my neck first, you’ll make a mess of it and I might scream in pain. Give me that, eh lad? Let me die with dignity.”

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Lod said.

  A hard grin stretched Barkos’s lips. “It doesn’t matter what you want. We’re just pit slaves.”

  Lod asked, “To fight at their whim?”

  “They’re the gods.”

  “They’re not gods,” Lod said.
r />   “…They’re stronger than us. So they might as well be gods.”

  Lod gripped his sword so hard that his knuckles hurt. His sword-arm trembled. He faced Moloch in the box. Lod hesitated. He wanted to live, but not as a slave. Lod’s mouth turned bone-dry. He felt light-headed. He raised his sword arm. Then he snarled and shook his sword at Moloch.

  “I’m not your slave! I’m a free man! I serve Elohim!”

  Moloch’s terrible eyes glittered.

  Lod cried out. The First Born’s gaze seemed to stab into his mind. Lod staggered back, and he threw his sword-arm before his eyes. He heard, too, a loud shout. The shout came from behind. Lod rubbed his sweaty forearm against his eyes. He shook his head to clear it. Then he looked up in the direction of the shout.

  A half-Nephilim ran down the stadium steps. He was big, maybe eight feet tall. He wore shimmering cloth and had shaggy blond hair. Like many of his kind, he had a wide face. On his forehead was the tattoo of a bright spearhead. He ran down the steps from his tier, entered the area of the giants. He reached the rail. He put both hands on it and glared down at Lod. Then he faced the box with purple awning.

  “Great Moloch!” the half-Nephilim shouted. “I bear a scar because of Eglon.” The half-Nephilim pointed at Lod. “He says he’s a free man. If that is so, I challenge him. I challenge him as a Bloodspiller. A Bloodspiller verses the chief of Eglon’s boastful band.”

  Moloch fingered his chin, his features marred with anger. His women backed away from the throne. They had grown quiet and fearful. Moloch’s lips moved as he stared at the herald.

  “He is my slave, not a free man!” the herald bellowed.

  Moloch whispered again.

  “He is an arrogant slave,” the herald shouted, “a boastful slave and a disobedient one. You are my Bloodspiller. Thus, I command you to take off his head and feed his carcass piece by piece to Barkos the Pit Slave.”

  “As you will it!” the half-Nephilim shouted. He vaulted over the rail, to land with a heavy thud on the white stadium sand.

  The half-Nephilim grinned savagely. He was taller than Lod and weighed perhaps twice as much. Because of the blood of the bene elohim, the half-Nephilim had an accursed gift, a unique ability that many termed magical.

  Lod had heard of a Nephilim who could run without becoming weary, while another had self-healed. He wondered what gift this half-Nephilim possessed. He knew that Nephilim and half-Nephilim were superhumanly strong and proud of their feats. Their names, their renown, were to them sacred things.

  A vivid scar ran along the half-Nephilim’s cheek.

  “I remember you,” Lod said. “You fell into a trap. We would have stoned you to death…”

  A vein along the half-Nephilim’s temple began to throb. With the sound of sliding steel, he drew a heavy sword, a long blade with runes etched upon it. The metal had a dull, gray sheen. It was likely Bolverk-forged. The half-Nephilim raised the sword and swung the blade behind his long hair.

  “I will slice the head from your shoulders,” the half-Nephilim chanted. “I will feed your flesh to the dog of a slave.”

  Lod stepped back.

  The half-Nephilim sneered. “You defied our Fathers, slave. You called out to him whose name we do not speak here. You boasted because you defeated an old slave well past its prime. Now you face one of the masters and your courage wilts.” The half-Nephilim laughed. “A single swing and your head will roll free.”

  Lod tightened his grip on the leather band of his shield and kept his eyes fixed on the half-Nephilim.

  The half-giant expanded his chest. He took a slow step toward Lod and moved his sword far behind his head. His dark eyes seemed to judge distances to Lod’s neck. When the long sword swung—and it would with deadly speed—the arc would terminate in Lod’s flesh.

  “I of the Bloodspillers—”

  The half-Nephilim frowned, puzzled. He must have not understood the blur of Lod’s arm. A Jogli knife had flashed between them. The blade had sunk deep into his chest, only halted by the cross-guard.

  The huge rune-sword slipped free from nerveless fingers and thumped upon the sand.

  A questioning murmur rose from the tiers. Such was Lod’s speed that none had seen him drop his sword and snatch the Jogli throwing knife from his belt.

  The half-Nephilim swayed. His eyebrows rose in astonishment as he stared at the hilt protruding from his chest. Blood trickled from the wound and stained his shimmering garment.

  In the lower tiers, giants stood in outrage. Several shouted. The beauties shrank from Moloch, while the First Born stared snake-like at Lod.

  Lod knelt and picked up his small sword.

  The half-Nephilim opened his mouth. “You… you had a knife.”

  “Elohim gave it to me,” Lod said.

  The half-Nephilim frowned in terrible puzzlement. Then he crashed upon his knees and blinked wildly.

  Lod began to stalk nearer. “I remember the day you fell into the pit. You’d slain Gaal and his daughter before that. You had hunted us like animals, but you fell into our trap. We would have stoned you like any wild beast if your companions hadn’t arrived.”

  “This cannot be,” the half-Nephilim whispered. “You’re only a man.”

  The Bloodspiller with a spearhead tattoo toppled sideways and gasped like a carp thrown onto land. He slid his hand toward the fallen sword.

  Lod roared, charged and killed the half-Nephilim with the stab of his blade. With four powerful hacks, Lod severed the neck. Then he grasped the tattooed head by its blond hair and ran at the giants. Blood dripped from the open mouth.

  The giants shouted with rage.

  Lod twirled the head twice and heaved it into the crowd of giants.

  Silence filled the mighty stadium. A man had slain one of the chosen and desecrated the corpse. It was blasphemy against the order of the Nephilim world.

  The head hit with a thud and rolled at the feet of several giants.

  Lod spotted one with a forked beard. The giant had a long, vile face. Lod recognized the Nephilim. It was Argus’s killer.

  “You!” Lod roared. “Nephilim! I challenge you to battle. Let’s see if you fare any better than one of your half-breed sons.”

  The fierce cry rang throughout the stunned stadium. It was a gargantuan boast spoken by a pit slave, a mere human, a thing thought by most to be hardly more than an animal.

  Fierce elation gripped Lod. Elohim had let him slay a half-Nephilim. Surely, Elohim would deliver the Nephilim slayer of Argus into his hands. The belief intoxicated him.

  “Do you fear me, O giant?” Lod shouted. “Do you dare to face a man?”

  A trumpet pealed. The herald of Moloch stepped onto the dais. The trumpet had to blast a second and a third time before the now rumbling, glaring giants fell silent.

  “Great Gymir the Sly,” the herald shouted across the stadium. “Will you descend onto the sand and butcher this gnat for your god?”

  The one named Gymir the Sly stroked his forked beard. He was huge, fifteen-feet tall. He wore a leather corselet studded with iron knobs. He wore breeches and boots, and he had lived for many hundreds of years. He had shrewd eyes, filled with calculating evil. His renown was great.

  “Divine Moloch,” Gymir said. His deep voice was several times louder than the herald’s. “There is a mystery here. The one you’ve named ‘gnat’ brims with the power of him above. How otherwise could he have achieved this infamy? My counsel is to feather his hide with arrows and be done with it.”

  Moloch half rose from his throne as his perfect features flushed crimson. He spoke angrily to the herald.

  The herald boomed: “We have not asked for your counsel, even though you are accounted sly. We command that you obliterate the gnat. Cut him into many pieces and quit this talk of false sky gods.”

  The giants murmured among themselves. Gymir once again tugged at his forked beard. He looked to Moloch.

  “Great One,” the giant said, “I beg you to consider this. When was
the last time we bickered between ourselves before the beasts? When has an animal slain one of the chosen in your very own stadium? It has never occurred before. That is a sign that—”

  Moloch raised his hand, and fire erupted from it. The fire burned blue, enveloped his hand without consuming it. He aimed the blue-fire hand at Gymir.

  The giant bowed as greasy drops of fear rolled down his face. None wished to face the fire of Moloch of Flames. Gymir’s gaze then fell upon Lod. The giant’s features tightened with rage, until his eyebrows rose and wonder filled his face.

  “You will not bewitch me, pit slave,” Gymir rumbled. He bent down and picked up a vast spear with a great bronze head.

  Lod backed away as the giant moved to the rail. Lod had listened to the interchange. They feared him. It made his blue eyes burn with zeal. Elohim aided him. Even the Nephilim recognized it. Yet he had no more tricks left.

  Gymir climbed down the wall and lowered himself onto the sand. He was huge, and the reach of that spear…

  Lod backed away more. He had his shield, what little worth it would be. And he had a puny sword. He thought about hurling it, but that would be foolish. The sword had the wrong balance to throw and the giant would expect something like that.

  Lod snarled to himself. He would have to dart past the spear, get inside the giant’s guard and hew the Nephilim’s shins. The leather corselet hung low enough to protect Gymir’s thighs, and higher than that Lod couldn’t reach.

  Lod raked a sweaty forearm across his lips. He needed water. He needed rest. Blood still oozed from his wounds. His lips twisted into a sneer. He had begged Elohim for a chance to face Argus’s killer. Now he complained because he’d gotten his desire.

  Lod kicked a bare heel at the sand and regarded Gymir. The giant was more than twice his height and could probably handle him as a warrior would a child.

  “Do I know you?” Gymir asked.

  “We’ve fought before, yes.”

  At small, Argus’s death, Lod had charged out of the hut in crazed madness, a knife clutched in his fist. The Nephilim had swatted then with his axe, hit Lod with the flat of it. That had ended the fight because it had dashed Lod senseless. For weeks afterward, Lod had been unable to twist his neck, and there had been ringing in his ears even longer than that.