The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Lod grew tense. He hated the Arverni. They were fierce clansmen, lean like coursing hounds and steeped in necromantic magic. The shamans used human skulls as receptacles for the souls they tore from tortured victims. The Arverni were nomadic and considered as lazy brutes, refusing to plant crops. They thought of themselves as the only free people, spending their days hunting, chipping stone weapons, chewing kanda leaves or plotting how to steal someone’s head.

  Lod had heard that the invading Nephilim paid the Arverni with iron knives or bronze hatchets to catch certain prized refugees who had fled into the mountains.

  He needed to get past these Arverni so he could continue tracking Manus Farstrider. He idly wondered whom they hunted.

  The crashing noises drew closer. Lod heard labored breathing like a wounded beast. Old, fallen leaves crackled, twigs snapped and then a bull of a man staggered into sight. An arrow was stuck in the back of his misshapen ham. From it, blood trickled down his breeches. The brute wore a leather vest, a shirt and had immense bones and massive muscles, and he stood a head taller than Lod. The man had a flat, mashed nose and too much scar tissue around his dark eyes. His hands were enormous, with the heavy, scarred knuckles of a brawler.

  Here was the victim of the Arverni hunt.

  Those big hands opened and closed as the brute glanced back over his shoulder. The coarse face showed a mixture of hatred and fear, and sweat poured in grimy rivulets. He blew sweat from his lips and stubbornly set his jaw. He continued staggering, at times dragging his wounded leg.

  The Arverni war-whoops grew louder and closer. The mountain-men would appear in moments. Lod snarled silently. He hadn’t purified himself yet from slaying the butchers in his village. Thus, more evil luck haunted him. Once the Arverni slew the brawler, they would surely find him hiding here. He didn’t want to deal with them. He wanted to track Manus Farstrider.

  Lod stood, stepped into view and hissed at the staggering brute of a man.

  The big man recoiled in shock, halted and hunched his massive shoulders. He glared at Lod and heaved air in and out of his bellow-like lungs.

  “Here,” Lod hissed. He hurled his war-hatchet overhand so it twirled and chopped into the soil between the brute’s booted feet. The sweating brute stared at it. Then his head whipped up and his eyes showed confusion.

  Lod slid the naked short sword out of his pack, and he strode toward the big man. “Face the Arverni while you still have enough strength to lift your arms.”

  “You’re helping me?” the brute asked harshly.

  The man stank of fear, sweat and blood. He had countless scratches on his arms and his shirt was torn.

  “Pick up the hatchet!” Lod hissed. “Turn around and face your enemies. That will surprise them.”

  Bemused, the brute snatched up the war-hatchet, and he turned toward the approaching Arverni. They were close enough so the pound of their feet was an ominous signal of their momentary appearance.

  Lod glided behind a huge old oak tree. He bent low, and he hurried to a different tree. He was using the man as bait so he could spring a trap. He bent onto one knee, his heart beating rapidly and his mouth drying out. How many Arverni were there? His hand tightened around the hilt of his short sword as his features hardened. The Arverni practiced necromancy, a foul, sinful magic. Likely, they hunted the brute for the Nephilim, for the god of Shiva. The sweating, wounded man—

  The first Arverni bounded into sight and skidded to a surprised halt. The lean mountain-man clutched a bow and had a rattling string of human teeth around his throat. A slender bone pierced his nose.

  Panting, looking witless, the huge brute with the scarred eyes glared at the tribesman. The brute didn’t even lift the hatchet Lod had thrown him. He just clutched it so his heavy knuckles turned white.

  A second Arverni broke into view. He had a single black feather in his blond hair and held three short javelins.

  The first Arverni lifted his bow and notched an arrow. He grinned, and showed that he was missing teeth. By the forest sounds, more Arverni were coming.

  Lod charged the Arverni from the side as his bare feet slapped the earth. Lod’s thighs strained and his face was contorted. The Arverni with the bow saw him, froze in shock and then tried to swivel his torso. Lod roared, straining to run faster. The mountain-man lifted his bow and drew the string. Then the brute hurled the war-hatchet. It sailed past the archer’s head, barely missing. Even so, it made the archer flinch, and that was enough. Lod slashed, and the Arverni spun onto the forest floor.

  Lod snarled, dodged a thrown javelin, leaped at and cut the second Arverni behind the shoulder. After hurling the javelin, the tribesmen had turned to flee. The sword cut staggered the tribesmen, giving Lod the needed time. He grabbed a fistful of long hair and yanked as he rammed his sword into the mountain-man’s back.

  The suddenness and brutally of Lod’s appearance broke the undulating cries of the handful of surviving Arverni. By the sounds, they fled.

  Lod panted. After their fright passed, they might work themselves into a rage. They might even send a runner to get others as they trailed him. But for now, he had broken the blood hunt.

  Lod inspected the Arverni he’d slain. He took the bow and arrows, found his war-hatchet and approached the brute.

  The big man knelt on one knee. He stiffly twisted around to examine the arrow in the back of his ham. At Lod’s approach, he looked up.

  Lod stopped short. There were golden flecks in the man’s dark eyes, and the face, it was a trifle too wide. It indicated Nephilim blood. So did the immense size. Lod was big. This man must be the son of a giant.

  The man’s fierce gaze took in Lod’s chest, no doubt noting the white scar there. The eyebrows rose, and the huge man eyed Lod with greater calculation.

  “Why did you help me if you hate me?” the big man asked.

  “You’re Nephilim,” Lod said flatly.

  The man swept a burly arm across his face, and he did it a second time. He sweated hard. “I have a drop or two of the blood of the high. Does that make me Nephilim? The god of Shiva says no. He treated me just like he treats you beasts.”

  Lod bristled.

  “Why did you help me?” the man asked.

  “Who are you?” Lod countered.

  For a third time, the huge man ran his arm across his face. He grunted as he stood, and he shuffled painfully to the first Arverni corpse. He tore off a leather pouch and upended it, guzzling the water.

  Lod collected his pack and javelin and approached the big man. He considered running the javelin though him. No. If the Arverni had hunted him, if the god of Shiva treated him like a ‘beast,’ Lod would let the Nephilim-tainted man live.

  “I’m Bosk,” the man said.

  Bosk were huge, shaggy cattle of the northern plains. They were long-horned, bad-tempered and when stampeded trampled everything in their path. Bosk was no name for a man. It sounded false, like a pit slave’s name.

  “Why did the Arverni hunt you?” Lod asked.

  Bosk grinned harshly. “In the Great Arena, I broke the back of a man the god of Shiva loved. It earned me divine enmity.” Bosk shrugged. “I broke the god’s ban, fled Shiva and then the valley. For those reasons, I am hunted like an animal. The god wants me back in the arena.”

  Bosk scowled as he took in the iron javelin Lod held, perhaps noticing it for the first time. “That’s a Nephilim’s weapon. Are you one of his porters?”

  Lod took a step closer as he gripped the javelin two-handedly. He shook the weapon, saying, “I’m going to shove this into Manus Farstrider and watch him die.”

  Bosk grunted as he worked down onto one knee and glanced back at the arrow. Then he regarded Lod. “You’re a fool if you think a lone man can slay a giant.”

  Lod bared his teeth and reconsidered driving the javelin into Bosk. He’d slain a giant before in the Stadium of Swords in far-off Uruk. He’d had help, though.

  “This fool just saved your worthless hide,” Lod said.


  Bosk scowled at some leaves. He shook his head so droplets of sweat flew off. He craned back to look at the arrow. “Would you do me one other favor?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Dig this arrow out of my leg. I’d yank it out, but I think it’s barbed.”

  For a moment, Lod’s grip tightened around the javelin. Then he drove the iron weapon into the earth. “The Arverni will return. It would be better for you to snap the shaft, bind the wound and limp as fast as you can wherever it is you plan to go.”

  “You’re a chariot runner, aren’t you?” Bosk asked.

  “…I was.”

  “You seem too heavy for one, but you have a kilt like a runner and are bare-footed. I’ll never keep up with you with a barbed arrowhead in my ham.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why,” Bosk said, “your madness of killing the giant, Manus Farstrider.”

  Irritated, Lod shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”

  “I like your plan,” Bosk said. “I’m coming with you.”

  Lod scowled fiercely, and he yanked the iron javelin free. “Manus Farstrider drives a slave-chain into the valley. I must find and slay him before they reach a slaver’s depot.”

  “Fine,” Bosk said. “So hurry and dig out this arrow.”

  “Why would you help me?” Lod asked.

  Bosk chuckled dryly. “Now we’ve come full circle. I asked you why you helped me, but you were either too stubborn or too proud to tell me. My answer is simple. You saved my life. I owe you a debt. So I’ll die with you as we attack the giant together.”

  “I do not seek your help,” Lod said.

  “That’s another reason why you’re a fool.”

  Blood rushed into Lod’s face. “Call me that again, Nephilim, and I’ll kill you.”

  A harsh grin spread across Bosk’s face. “I saw you slay those Arverni. You’re like a blood-maddened leopard when you fight. So I don’t doubt your skills. And you’re obviously a driven… warrior. But I’m going to warn you, my friend. Don’t ever threaten me again.”

  Lod sneered and shouldered the long javelin. “I didn’t realize you were a Nephilim when I first decided to aid you.” He strode past Bosk and headed for the trail. Behind him, he heard Bosk climb to his feet. Lod heard the dry leaves Bosk crushed underfoot, the harsh breathing and the occasional rustling branch.

  Soon, Lod reached the beaten trail. He broke into a chariot-runner’s jog.

  He’d heard about the savages the god of Shiva put in the Great Arena. It was different from the Stadium of Swords in far-off Uruk. In Shiva, big men wrapped leather around their fists, often leather with heavy knobs of lead embedded between the straps. Instead of dueling with swords, they boxed to the death. The victor usually bore ugly scars and he had a flattened nose and cauliflower ears. Lod had heard that strong, heavy men able to absorb brutal punishment and deal devastating blows dominated the arena. Such a one would not be a lithe, distance runner, but a rhinoceros sort of man with an explosive temper.

  That’s how Lod viewed Bosk. Whenever he glanced over his shoulder, Bosk was a little farther behind. The huge man pounded along the trail like a rhinoceros. The brute’s features were stark white and his dark eyes staring. There was no grace to the big man’s running, and he grimaced often, no doubt because of the arrow in his ham. Lod could well envision Bosk trampling lesser men. The thud of Bosk’s footfalls and the heaviness of his breathing told Lod that Bosk would soon collapse.

  It helped that the trail led downward, although there were a few upward rises. The trees shaded them, but the trees also kept the air windless. Inquisitive squirrels froze and watched Lod pass. Here and there, a startled crow cawed in protest. Otherwise, the forest echoed Bosk’s breathing and the thud of his boots.

  At last, Lod stopped and waited.

  Soon, the big man appeared on the trail. He had bristles for hair. He gasped horribly and weaved as he ran. His eyes were glazed, and maybe he would have staggered blindly past Lod.

  Lod shouted, “Bosk!”

  The huge man with the tainted blood of the Nephilim shuffled to a halt as he blinked stupidly. He groaned as he sank onto his good knee. Bosk panted.

  Lod waited.

  Eventually, Bosk raised his slightly, too wide of a head. “You’re a harsh taskmaster,” he whispered.

  Lod waited longer. He’d had help in the Stadium of Swords when he’d faced the giant Gymir. He might need help against Manus Farstrider.

  Bosk wiped sweat out of his eyes.

  “You don’t know when to quit,” Lod said.

  “It’s one of the reasons I won most of my bouts.”

  “Not all?” Lod asked.

  “No one can win all the time.”

  “Manus Farstrider is about to discover the truth of your words,” Lod said.

  “Dig the arrow out of my ham and I’ll help you make your dream a reality.”

  “You ran from the Arverni,” Lod said.

  Bosk’s eyes went cold, but he nodded. “They fought from a distance like cowards. They used throwing sticks and arrows. I had to run if I wanted to live.” He flexed his immense hands. “Let me get hold of a man and I can break his back or crush his ribs.”

  “Your strength will fail against a giant.”

  Bosk regarded Lod, and he nodded again. “You have a point. But I was thinking about the giant’s retainers. I will keep them at bay while Manus Farstrider kills you.”

  The heat rose in Lod, but he fought it down. “You lack weapons.”

  Bosk raised his big hands. “These are all I need.”

  “You’re a wrestler?”

  “And a boxer,” Bosk said.

  “If I cut out the arrowhead,” Lod said, “that will deepen the wound.”

  “I heal fast,” Bosk said.

  A queasy feeling swept through Lod. Nephilim to the third generation had an accursed gift because of their blood. It was a singular, supernatural ability. It was part of their heritage. Some of those of further generations also had hints of the accursed gift. Bosk healed fast. Perhaps it was an accursed gift.

  “Don’t look so upset,” Bosk said. “You heal better than most yourself, much better than I could heal.” He indicated the twin scars on Lod’s torso.

  Lod touched his chest.

  “The enemy of your enemy is your friend,” Bosk said.

  Lod cocked his head.

  “…I have no love for Manus Farstrider,” Bosk added.

  “You ran from the Arverni and now you want to chase giants?”

  “I heard you about the Arverni the first time,” Bosk muttered. “And I’ve considered your strategy. Manus is the god’s hunter because of his gift. When the giant desires, he can run like the wind and for long stretches of time. He pays the Arverni with iron knives and he will continue to range out of the valley, searching for those who have fled the god. If Manus dies, however—”

  Lod dropped his pack and javelin, startling Bosk and cutting off his speech. Lod drew his short sword. He didn’t really want this Nephilim-tainted man’s help. But maybe the slaves in Manus Farstrider’s chain would not be so choosy.

  “Wait a minute,” Bosk said, as he dug in his breeches.

  Lod watched Bosk closely. Did the sight of naked steel frighten him? Not all strong men were brave. If Bosk was cowardly—

  Bosk drew a heavy piece of leather from a pocket, a piece of leather full of teeth-marks. Bosk put the leather between his teeth and muttered, “Go ahead. I’m ready now.”

  Lod knelt beside the huge man, put his hand on the heated flesh and lowered the tip of his razor-sharp sword…

  -6-

  “There,” Lod said, pointing far below.

  They stood on a cliff at the edge of the foothills. The cliff jutted outward, a towering stand of bare rock. Behind them rose the forested foothills and then the greater mountains that ended in snow-covered peaks. Before them, spread the great Pishon River Valley. The mighty Pishon was obscured by haze
and was thus impossible for either of them to see. The Pishon ran parallel with the mountains and emptied westward into the Ammon Gulf. Forty leagues away, the city of Shiva stood on the right bank of the Pishon and along the Ammon coast. It was the god’s capital, the headquarters of the Nephilim invasion of the Pishon River Valley.

  Bosk squinted where Lod pointed. As Bosk did, Lod glanced at the huge man’s ham. It had been a day since Lod had dug out the arrowhead. Even after prolonged running, the wound had healed enough so it no longer seeped blood. Bosk healed faster than normal, but not at a frightening, supernatural rate.

  Bosk grunted.

  Lod looked up. Far to their right, coming out of the mountains, flowed the Zin River. Far to their left was the swift-flowing Zur River. The two mountain-rivers converged in swampy Lake Zin-Zur and each poured out in a different waterfall that traveled to the distant Pishon River. Double Forks was a village on Lake Zin-Zur, which from here looked to be about the size of a Larak silver shekel. The people of Double Forks ran a ferry, taking goods to whatever side one wished of the various rivers.

  Lod shaded his eyes. Dust rose on the road below. Occasional glints shone through the dust. The glints might have come from a slave-chain reflecting sunlight.

  “It’s Manus Farstrider,” Bosk said.

  “Do you have eagle sight?” Lod asked.

  “Over there at the head of the column. The giant towers over the others, and the sun reflects a golden color off his helmet.”

  Lod squinted. There was possibly a taller man there, a giant. Bosk’s superior sight was yet another proof of his tainted blood.

  “We need chariots,” Lod said.

  “They didn’t help you last year.”

  Lod scowled. The battle by the salt marsh had been a confusing, dust-swirling fight. He’d been a chariot runner in it, a sell-sword for the nobles of Ramoth. “The Nephilim used cunning tricks that day,” While remembering the terrible, surprise attack from the rear, Lod added, “We would have beaten them otherwise.”

  “Those tricks are called tactics,” Bosk said. “The Nephilim are masters of them.”

  “Were you there?”

  “I’m a boxer and a wrestler, not a soldier. When I lose, I get to fight another day. When a soldier loses, he’s usually dead.” Bosk nodded at the iron javelin in Lod’s grasp. “How far can you hurl that?”