The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Sit up,” Sarah urged, dragging Gad upright in her lap. She rubbed his arms and whispered into his ear. “Don’t groan. Don’t call out for your mother.”

  Gad opened his eyes, and for a moment, they were clear. “Are they coming to kill me?” he asked in a small voice.

  Sarah bit her lip, struggling to know whether she should tell him the truth or not. He was so young. She hugged him tightly and rubbed his back.

  “I hate them,” Gad whispered. “I wish they were dead.”

  “Don’t let them hear you say that,” she whispered.

  “You, woman, let the boy go.”

  While clinging to Gad, Sarah looked up at the evil slaver with the drooping mustache. He had cold eyes and a nasty grin. He enjoys doing this, she realized. He enjoys seeing fear.

  “Let him go,” the slaver said.

  “He’s fine,” she said.

  The nasty smile disappeared. The slaver lowered his spear until the razor-sharp tip touched the bottom of Gad’s chin. “Look at me, boy.”

  Gad looked up, and whatever courage he’d had a moment ago, fled as he whimpered with terror.

  “Remove your arms from him,” the slaver told Sarah.

  “I’ll carry him,” Sarah said. “I don’t mind.”

  The cold, dark gaze left Gad’s face as it moved onto Sarah. The slaver let his tongue slide out to glide across his lower lip.

  “But are you willing to pay the price to carry him?” the slaver asked.

  Something like Gad’s fever swam before Sarah’s eyes. She felt lightheaded and faint, and a nauseous fist of pain tightened in her belly. She’d seen what they had done to Lea. Everyone had seen it. She suspected that was planned. Five of them—they had laughed like hyenas and acted worse than a pack of dogs.

  The lip-spiked slaver removed the spear-tip from Gad’s chin and put it under her chin. He made her look up higher.

  “You’re wise to be frightened.” He was smiling again, a nasty, lust-filled thing. The row of spikes under his lower lip—they were hideous. “Now be a good bitch and let go of the boy. He’s too sick. He’s—”

  “I can pay,” Sarah whispered. The nauseous fist of pain in her belly tightened so she almost cried out—almost. She had a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan. In fact, it was suicidal. But the idea of sitting by while this pig slew Gad was too much to take. What was her life worth? Sarah swallowed hard. She desperately wanted to live. She suddenly wanted to live more now than she ever had.

  “The bitch is scared,” the slaver told the others. Several of them chuckled.

  Sarah knew they would use her in front of the others and that would forever shame her. She had to use her wits now. She had to—

  “Just you,” she said, so dazed inside she could hardly believe the words had come out of her mouth.

  The slaver had parted his lips, perhaps to make another quip. Instead, he closed them and stared at her.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  His left eyebrow rose.

  She forced herself to say, “I like to know a warrior’s name so I can call out to him when…”

  “Shameless slut,” he said, and he was grinning as he leaned down. “You think I don’t know what you’re planning?”

  A shiver ran up her back. He knew her plan. She should have realized he would know. But a pig like this… lust and evil must have long ago warped his better judgment. Sarah rolled Gad into the mud. The boy whimpered and curled into a fetal ball.

  The slaver laughed, nodding, and he twitched his head. One of the others bent low and unlocked Sarah’s collar.

  “You ready for us?” the lip-spiked slaver asked. “You ready to put on a show?”

  Although her knees felt weak, Sarah stood up. His spear-point remained under her chin, while from the tree cold drops fell onto her hair and trickled down her back. The slaver stood before her, with his companions flanking him a step behind and one just beside her to the left. She should have realized he was cunning toward the desperate ways of captives. The desire for life thudded with her heartbeats. They would use her now no matter what she did: use her like a dog, worse than a dog. She saw the lust shining in his eyes. Likely, he was thinking to show the stupid woman what her cleverness had gained. These pigs meant to utterly break her and demoralize the others through her example. Sarah told herself that later, when they had brutalized her as they had Lea, she would wish then she could do something. But by then it would be too late. They would have broken her by then. So whatever payback she was going to get for her raping, she had to win it now.

  “I can see the cunning in your eyes,” the slaver whispered. “You’re all alike, all—”

  His words ceased as she shoved the spear-point away from her chin and grasped the bottom of her tunic. Without thinking about it, before she wilted, she pulled off the tunic as sensuously as possible under these vile conditions. She ran a hand between her breasts and saw the slaver grin. That’s when she threw the tunic over his head.

  The slavers behind him laughed crudely. As the lip-spiked slaver yanked her tunic off his face, she slithered nearer like a wanton. She ran a sensuous hand along her thigh and hoped his gaze was riveted there. She reached with her other hand as if to pull him near. Then she melted her body against his rough garments, his belt buckle pressing against her belly. But instead of grabbing his waist, she gripped his dagger’s handle. She moaned as if excited, licked her lips, smiling now, remembering what a traveling bard had told her about distraction being the art of his magic tricks. She grinded her pelvis against him and began to draw his dagger. At that moment, however, his powerful hand clamped onto her wrist.

  “I hate it when someone believes I’m a fool,” the slaver said.

  Without thinking, Sarah arched up on her toes and sank her teeth into his chin. He howled. She drew his dagger as his hands clawed at her, trying to shove her off. He was stronger than she was, but she was stronger than he must have suspected. She clung to him with her left arm, resisting his efforts, biting down to the bone. Then she let go with her teeth, brought up the dagger and drove the tip under his chin. She shoved the blade home as steel grated against bone. The slaver squawked—it was an inhuman sound. He leaped backward in a convulsive move, collapsed onto the mud and began to thrash wildly, croaking out sounds.

  Sarah backed away from the thing dying on the mud. She backed away against the dripping oak tree’s trunk. She spat blood out of her mouth, crouched and gathered Gad into her arms. She ducked her head and twisted her shoulder as a slaver swung his spear. It connected with a thud. The pain blossomed. She waited for the second blow, but it never came. She looked up to see why.

  The giant loomed before her, staring down from his great height. Then he stared at his dead slaver.

  “Bring her to me,” the giant rumbled.

  “What about the boy, Great One?” a subdued slaver asked.

  The giant’s yellow eyes narrowed the barest fraction. “Bring him with her. But first clean up this mess and finish feeding the slaves.”

  ***

  Manus Farstrider sat on a folding stool, eating. He’d rigged a large red cloak in the branches above. Water dripped from the edges, but it left him dry.

  Sarah stood shivering before him. It had begun raining harder again so big, cold drops slid off the leaves and plunked into the growing puddles. She wore her wet tunic plastered against her chilled skin. Her hair hung in strands. Gad moaned, shivering uncontrollably, crouched at her feet, partially shielded from the rain.

  As he sat studying her, Manus tore meat from a bone. His slavers had slain a boar earlier. The smell of its roasting flesh was still strong on the cold mountain air. As the giant chewed, Sarah’s stomach growled loudly enough to make the Nephilim grin. She had missed the feeding, missed the miserable crust of bread.

  Manus was huge and radiated power and health. He wore leather and furs instead of his bronze-mailed armor. His features were godlike, without flaw, and his blond hair was thickly luxurious. Befo
re him, she felt like a child again. He pointed his meat-bone at her, opened his mouth as if to speak, then he grinned and retuned the bone near his teeth so he could tear off more flesh. He chewed noisily.

  “…He would have raped me,” Sarah said.

  Manus shrugged.

  She hated the giant more than ever. He was Nephilim, with the blood of the bene elohim and therefore should have been nobler than men instead of crueler than men. He had slain Lod in an offhanded manner. He led these killers. Yet he was—

  “I notice you care for the child the warrior tried to save,” Manus rumbled.

  He had a deep voice like a bear and it almost made him seem majestic and certainly more frightening. As Sarah wiped rain from her eyes, she fought off his spell of greatness. He was just bigger, and that meant a bigger bastard.

  “Warrior? Do you mean Lod?” she asked.

  Manus lowered the bone, and with his forearm, he wiped grease from his lips. “You bit one of my men today and you care for the boy this Lod attempted to save.” Manus glanced at his bronze wrist-guard. “That madman bit so hard he left his teeth marks here. Tell me, is that his child?”

  Sarah desperately tried to reason out whether it would be better or worse for Gad if the Nephilim thought him Lod’s son.

  “Your attack shows you’re not a lack-wit,” Manus rumbled. “So answer me, woman.”

  “It is his child,” Sarah lied.

  Manus grinned, nodding. “You fought for the boy. You’ve nurtured him these past days. Are you his mother?”

  “Yes!” Sarah said.

  Manus grinned wider as he tore more meat from the bone. His yellow eyes took her in. He leaned toward her, sniffed twice and he laughed.

  Sarah had said yes because surely even Nephilim could understand a mother’s love for a child. Even a Nephilim might hesitate before killing a child before a mother’s eyes.

  “You’re the madman’s wife then?” Manus asked softly.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought of that.

  “Two biters,” Manus said, “two fighters.” He glanced at Gad. “The boy lacks your fire.”

  “Your archers shot a child, wounding him.”

  “They shot a beast,” and there was anger in the giant’s words.

  His tone made Sarah bite back her reply.

  After a moment, Manus grunted, and his better humor returned, if the twitch of his lips was any indication.

  “You are the mother.”

  The way he said it made fear wash over Sarah.

  “It is a pity,” Manus said.

  Moisture fled Sarah’s mouth.

  “I like your spirit,” he said. “You are also pleasing to my eye—I might have bedded you and even gifted your womb with a boy-child of the blood.” He laughed. “You have rare courage, rare courage indeed. But I will not sully myself on a used sow. It would demean my dignity. It is odd, however.” He studied her.

  “Odd?” she whispered, knowing he wanted her to reply.

  “Most odd,” Manus said. “You have the scent of a virgin. Your face, your form, it is also virginal. Yet you are this boy’s mother and the wife of the madman. It would almost seem to be a mystery. Perhaps you can explain it to me.”

  “N-n-no,” Sarah whispered.

  “Your fate will not be a good one,” Manus said.

  Sarah’s knees almost gave way.

  “I do not mean you in particular,” he said. “I mean the captives. You are all destined for the docks of Shiva and... Well, let me leave that a mystery for now. My point is that you might have escaped the bitter fate meant for you beasts if you’d been a virgin.”

  “As your wife?” asked Sarah.

  Manus Farstrider threw back his head and roared laughter. “My wife!” he shouted, and his frame shook with mirth. After a time, he wiped his eyes and shook his head. Then he tossed her the bone. “Eat,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

  Sarah offered Gad some, but the boy turned his head. So she began to gnaw the tough meat. If she was going to survive, going to escape, she needed food.

  The Nephilim watched her, and finally said, “These hills are filled with desperate beasts. They rove like wolves, devouring the weak. Perhaps that’s why you built your settlement so high up in the mountains, to escape the two-legged wolves. Your people hardly put up a fight, except for your husband, of course.”

  Sarah nodded, trying to quell her unease.

  “Was it Bosk who told you to build in the mountains?” Manus asked.

  Sarah looked up surprised.

  The humor drained from Manus Farstrider as he put his huge hands on his knees and leaned toward her. “Bosk is a brute of a beast. Well, he is not altogether a beast. He has some of the blood and fought good enough to please the god. Bosk is like a bear in man-guise, bigger than the common herd animals.” Manus’s head twitched in negation. “Have you seen such a man?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  Manus straightened and looked away. When he studied her again, the tension had left him. He stood to his imposing height, and he unhooked the cloak from the branches above, pinning it to his shoulders. He settled a leather helm onto his head as rainwater began to drip on him.

  “For now, you will live, and the boy will live. I grant him to you, biter. You shall march apart from the others, however. It is not good for the other beasts to see one who successfully slays a guard. I had first thought to impale you.”

  Sarah hugged herself.

  Manus nodded. “It is an ugly way to die, but you have earned it by your rebellious heart. Still, I despise mysteries. You shall live until I solve this riddle of a virginal mother.”

  Sarah crouched beside Gad because she no longer trusted her legs. She believed she understood him. Manus knew she lied about being Gad’s mother and Lod’s wife. He knew she was a virgin, could apparently sniff it out like a dog. He likely wanted her to beg to become his brood mare, to conceive his hellish child. He’d threatened her and hinted at promises.

  “Take away your brat,” he said. “His sniveling disgusts me. Go. Tell the black-robed necromancer that you must remain hidden from the others.”

  Sarah dragged Gad to his feet, staggering through the rain toward an evil man in a black robe. He had sunken cheeks and had black marks around his eyes. He had ridden a mule as everyone else had walked. That one held a cloak for her, and he leered with wicked promise. She hated him, but she also couldn’t believe it. She was still alive, and was possibly in worse danger than before.

  -5-

  Four days after burying Lila, Lod loped through the foothills, tracking the slavers and tracking Manus Farstrider. He’d left the pines a day ago and now trotted past hoary old oak trees and towering birch. Rain had obliterated most the slavers’ tracks, but not all. Manus seemingly drove his catch back to the valley and likely headed for Shiva. Therefore, the giant would use the ferry at Double Forks.

  There was a time not so long ago when Lod had tracked robbers or Arverni headhunters. Before Lilia, before the Nephilim invasion of the Pishon Valley, he had escaped the mines of Tartarus by heading south. Eventually, he had fallen in with Lord Amur. Lod had become a chariot runner, a foreign sell-sword. Lord Amur had been a proud noble and had owned large estates near the foothills. Shepherds had herded sheep on the estates and sometimes outlaws had stolen lambs. Lord Amur had often set Lod and other sell-swords the onerous task of pursuing the thieves on foot. Or if Arverni mountain-men slunk into a shepherd’s hut at night and decapitated the poor unfortunate, then Lod and others chased the Arverni into the mountains and exacted vengeance.

  Not so long ago, the king of Ramoth had stood against the conquering Nephilim. Lord Amur and his chief retainers had fielded a chariot squadron for the king, joining the host. A chariot had a driver, an archer and its two horses. To keep a chariot running there had to be grooms for the horses, servants to grease the axles and others to re-weave torn floor-mats or fix broken hitches. A bowyer tended the lord’s powerful composite bow. A good one li
ke Lord Amur’s bow had taken ten years in the making. Other experts sharpened daggers and made sure the lord’s armor remained sound. Finally, in the field, fearless men like Lod ran with the chariots into battle or in the hunt.

  Chariot runners had to be swift of foot and have great endurance. It also called for berserk valor. Their task was to charge enemy chariots and wound the horses or capture fallen charioteers. They threw javelins and brained the enemy with an axe. Few runners wore armor, maybe a leather helmet. All went barefoot. Speed was of the essence, and quickness to dodge arrows allowed one to survive.

  Lod had escaped the massacre a year ago where Lord Amur, the king of Ramoth and his host had perished. Lod had plunged into the salt marsh with everyone else. Giants had waded after and slain everyone wearing armor. Sometimes at night, Lod could still hear the cries and see in his imagination armored men sinking into the mire or sliced in half by a giant’s axe. He had slithered like an eel and kept ahead of the butchery. Since then—

  Lod slowed, stopped and stood on a forest trail, his chest rising and falling, with sweat slicked across his skin. The leafy canopy overhead made it gloomy and humid. He was barefoot and clutched the great iron javelin. A shoulder pack held his sandals and short sword, along with a skin of water, day-old deer meat and a length of rope. His war-hatchet was thrust through a loop on his belt that secured his kilt. Lod had stopped because he’d heard something ahead. He slipped off the beaten path, careful not to crush any plants or let anything rustle. Soon, he crouched behind a bush with coin-sized leaves. He set the javelin at his feet. Manus had thrown it, but the ten-foot, iron missile was too heavy for Lod to throw far. He would use it as a pike.

  Soon, Lod heard crackling branches in the underbrush. Then he heard a terrific snap that indicated a heavier branch breaking in two. A hidden Arverni mountain-man, a headhunter, shouted wildly making their dreaded, undulating call. Others took up the cry.