“Soon,” she whispered.
The boy nodded mutely, and he tried to smile. It nearly broke her heart.
Their tunics whispered against reeds whose tips swayed above their heads. Then a strange sound like rubbed papyrus sheets startled Sarah. It caused her to glance skyward. A monstrously large dragonfly with a three-foot wingspan and a long narrow body three times the length of her hand hovered and watched. It had strange hooked legs.
Sarah fumbled for the bronze dagger. As she drew it, the huge dragonfly zipped upward and away, and out of sight.
Sarah wiped sweat from her eyes. She’d never seen a dragonfly like that. What did it mean? It couldn’t be the necromancer’s creature. He would have used a bat.
She pushed aside a towering stalk and dragged Gad along. The dragonfly was an ill omen. She felt that. After seven muffled steps—her bare feet pressed against matted layers of grass—she stiffened, and the color drained from her cheeks. The unmistakable odor of sabertooth made her shoulders hunch.
Through the dense reeds, the massive killer coughed. It was a rumble of sound greater than what even Manus Farstrider could make. By the noise, the beast padded through the undergrowth. Did the beast hunt her and Gad? Could the giant cat smell the boy’s fever?
The knuckles of Sarah’s knife-hand whitened. Her hand shook. Her heart hammered and she found it impossible to breathe. Then the tawny color of the beast passed before her. It halted and made sniffing noises, perhaps catching Gad’s diseased odor. It turned as stalks rustled. The big cat thrust a horribly huge face into hers. The beast had red-rimmed eyes and wet, gleaming fangs.
Sarah worked her throat, terrified.
The sabertooth crouched. The back feet shifted as its hindquarters lowered.
Her puny knife would be useless against such a monster as this. Sarah’s heart thudded, and with agonizing slowness, she took a step back.
The sabertooth roared. Sarah’s world was filled with the sound, and the beast’s breath was the stench of corpses.
“Stay back, beast!”
Startled, Sarah turned. Manus Farstrider towered behind her.
Then several things all seemed to happen at once. The sabertooth sprang. Manus Farstrider’s huge hand swept Sarah aside, knocking the knife from her hand. Then Manus Farstrider grunted as the great cat collided with him. The sabertooth hissed malevolently.
Sarah didn’t see anything then. The force of the giant’s hand propelled her face-first into the mucky soil. She heard roars, from both Manus and the sabertooth. Pain filled each sound.
Knowing she might not have another opportunity, Sarah scrambled upright. Manus and the sabertooth grappled with each other. They rolled in the reeds, smashing them flat.
Sarah grabbed Gad’s hot hand and dragged him along. “Come on!” she screamed. “Run!”
Together, they fled deeper into the swamp.
-8-
Lod came upon a man in a muddy black robe sitting in the middle of the trail in the swamp. The man groaned, holding his hooded head. Caked blood covered his thin hand and his narrow face.
“Who’s there?” the man whispered.
Lod glanced at the rock beside the man, examined the head again, and realized someone had used the rock and smashed it against the man’s forehead. With a shock, he realized it was the necromancer that he’d seen at the village. This one had tried to chant spells against him.
Bosk pounded near, wheezing like a wounded rhinoceros.
“Help me,” the necromancer pleaded.
Shivering with revulsion, Lod squatted beside the wounded necromancer. This one had no doubt committed blasphemous acts. This one might have helped impale old Achan.
“Who’s there?” the lean necromancer pleaded. “Please, I’m hurt. Help me.”
“What happened to you?” Lod said slowly.
“…The bitch tricked me. She picked up a rock and dashed it against my head. Now I can’t see. Tell Manus—”
“What’s the woman’s name?” Lod asked.
“Name, her name,” the necromancer whispered. “—she’s a beast. I think they called her Sarah. She had a wonderful boy with her, however, a wounded boy, Gad. But why does that matter? I’m hurt, and I need help.”
Lod stiffened, and his blues eyes blazed.
“These tracks,” Bosk said, pointing at the ground. “They lead into the swamp.”
As Bosk spoke, the necromancer cocked his head. “Lord,” he said in Bosk’s direction, “I serve Manus Farstrider. He will reward you for bringing me to him.”
Bosk glanced at Lod, before the big man asked, “How was the woman able to do this?”
The necromancer groaned. “My head hurts, and I can’t see. The bitch tricked me. Oh, she’s a cunning one, worse than a viper. She killed Kos, and that intrigued Manus. I think he wishes to breed with her. He kept her apart from the others. If you bring me to Manus, he will reward you. He will want the woman. He will possibly want her more than the entire string of beasts.”
“…She fled into the swamp?” Bosk asked.
Lod could no longer speak. He had risen, and he clutched the iron javelin. He glared at the necromancer, hating him, hating how he had called Sarah a bitch and how he had called his friends beasts. This one was far gone in his corruption, and he had likely lost his humanity through continuous foul deeds.
“Oh, my head, my head,” the necromancer groaned.
Lod forced the words from his mouth. “Manus Farstrider will hunt the girl?”
The necromancer shrank back, and he began to tremble. Perhaps he heard something in Lod’s voice to frighten him.
“Answer me,” Lod said.
“Mercy, Lord,” the necromancer pleaded.
“Answer me,” Lod growled.
“Yes, Lord. Manus will hunt her, I’m certain of that. If you will—”
“I’ll reward you,” Lod hissed.
The necromancer took his bloody hand away and squinted in Lod’s direction. Blood caked his face.
Lod raised the iron javelin and plunged it into the necromancer’s body. The man screamed thinly and fell back. He twitched, and groaned as Lod drew out the javelin, stabbing again.
Soon, the necromancer lay still, dead.
Lod wrenched the javelin free and repeatedly stabbed it into the damp soil.
Bosk glanced at him.
“I do not want his foul blood staining any of my weapons,” Lod said.
Bosk asked, “What now?”
“We hunt Manus,” Lod said, withdrawing the javelin from the dirt for the last time.
***
Lod followed the sound of lowlander shouts. He’d been using a path of crushed reeds that slavers had made. Occasionally, he found muddy tracks. Often, he and Bosk waded through green ponds. Water-spiders scuttled out of the way. Frogs plopped as they leaped and swam to safer climes. Ahead, three storks took flight, their long legs dangling.
Lod halted, his chest heaving. Reeds towered over them. It was a dense forest of reeds and bulrushes, a marsh maze. It would be easy to become lost in here. It stank of stagnant water and moist, decaying plants. Gnats whined in his ears. One bug crawled across his cheek. He crushed it, and he batted at the others swarming around his face.
Mud sucked at Bosk’s boots. Twice, the big man had stopped to retrieve a boot, one torn off his foot by the mud.
“This is madness,” Bosk whispered. Sweat trickled down his broad face, and he looked haggard. “They’ll never find the girl in here. Look. It will be dusk soon.”
Lod scanned the dense reeds, and he listened carefully.
“Let us wait for them on the main trail,” Bosk suggested.
In amazement, Lod regarded the big man. “Do lack eyes to see? This is a gift. By wandering into the heart of the swamp as they search for Sarah, these men have been delivered into our hands.”
“What nonsense do you spout?” Bosk asked.
“Why did Sarah flee? To halt the slave-chain and cause the slavers to spread out for us to sl
ay one by one.”
“Bah,” said Bosk. “If that’s so, why didn’t the help come sooner to save the impaled Achan?”
Lod shook his head. He didn’t know why.
“I admit this is a fortunate coincidence,” Bosk said. “But it’s mad to see everyday occurrences as some divine plan that aids you.”
Lod gripped the iron javelin. He was the knife of Elohim, and tonight he would extract vengeance from the evil ones. He had run far. He was tired. This clumping through mud and wading through water leeched his last reserves of strength. But a fire burned in him.
A shout sounded. It came from ahead. It was much closer than earlier shouts.
Lod cocked his head, straining to pinpoint the shouts exactly.
Ahead, sticks beat at reeds.
Lod motioned for Bosk to come up even with him. Then, he put a finger over his lips, indicating silence.
Bosk brought up his immense hands and flexed his fingers. The big man nodded.
The two of them began to pick their way through the reeds.
Lod’s heart hammered and he stared intently. Two or three slavers beat the reeds ahead. They must surely be searching for Sarah and Gad. Lod’s vision swam for a moment. It almost seemed as if he could hear the fire crackling again in the mountain village. Smoke, the smell of blood, the frightened screams of the captured and raped—
The vision passed as the reeds ahead shook. Lod crouched low. His eyes were wild. Carefully, he pushed the tip of the javelin deep into the mud. He set his pack there, drew the short sword with his left hand and yanked out the war-hatchet with his right. He breathed deeply, tasting the swampy air.
A descending stick appeared. It rustled against a tall reed, causing the giant stalk to quiver. Then a lowlander in a muddy tunic appeared. The slaver wore a leather helmet with dangling straps on either side. He breathed heavily and sweat ran in runnels down his face. He had an eye patch. A sheathed short sword rode up high on his waist.
Lod opened his mouth, panting in his desire to kill the slaver. But he waited, crouched low, remaining motionless, willing the slavers nearer.
Another slaver appeared. This one also held a stick. They beat the reeds. An auroch horn thumped against his chest. It dangled from a rope, the end of the loop resting against his neck. The tip of the horn where he would put his lips was capped with gold. That one had a jeweled dagger, or at least a jeweled hilt. Perhaps the blade itself was good iron.
There was a third slaver, but he remained hidden by the reeds.
The two in the lead took another step forward. Then, rustling reeds to their left—Lod’s right—caused them to halt and glance sharply that way.
Lod realized it must be Bosk. As he realized it, his fierce desire betrayed him. Lod surged toward the two slavers. The mud slowed him. The motion alerted the slavers. Their tore their studied gaze away from whatever had made the noise and toward him.
Lod hurled the hatchet. It twirled, just as it had many days ago in his cabin. The axe-blade crunched into a slaver’s face. The man jerked backward, crashing against reeds, flattening several of them. Lod passed the sword short from his left to his right hand as he charged. The slaver before him shouted in alarm and struck with his stick. Lod parried it as he would a sword. He thrust. It was a delicate move, belying the rage in his heart. The artery in the slaver’s neck was a mere finger’s width from the skin. The sword was back near Lod as blood jetted from the slaver’s throat. The man pitched forward, twitched violently and then seemed to deflate.
The last slaver grunted in surprise.
Lod surged ahead, parting reeds.
Bosk held the slaver, a thin man. With a grunt, the big man lifted the shouting slaver up over his head. It was a feat of great strength, as he held the man by his shoulder and thigh. Bosk brought the slaver down hard on his out-stretched knee. There was a brittle crack, the snapping of the slaver’s back. The slaver’s features went stark white. He sucked air, perhaps to scream loud and in terrible agony.
Lod’s short sword whispered against flesh, and the slaver died without howling a death cry.
“In such a manner I broke men in the Great Arena,” Bosk boasted.
Lod crouched by the dead slaver. Carefully, he wiped his bloody blade on the corpse’s garments. A terrible exaltation filled him. He had dreamed of this as he’d been pinned against the cabin.
They had slain sweet Lila. She was dead, gone forever.
For a moment, the desire to howl in pain filled Lod. Instead, he sheathed his sword. He glanced at Bosk. The big man watched him too closely, almost as if Bosk thought him dangerous, as if Bosk feared what he might do next.
“Death is no game,” Lod said.
“Speak clearly,” said Bosk.
“Kill cleanly and quickly. You toyed with the man, breaking his back, possibly to watch him suffer.”
“Are you mad?” Bosk asked. “You’re a raving killer and you dare to lecture me?”
Fierce emotions seethed through Lod, making it difficult to articulate his thoughts. Finally, he said, “Our vengeance continues.”
“Yours is,” Bosk muttered. “Mine is yet to come.”
Lod might have pondered that. Instead, he hurried to retrieve his war-hatchet and javelin.
-9-
Manus Farstrider bit back a groan of pain. Blood welled from claw wounds in his left shoulder. The sabertooth had hurt him. He had slain the beast. Blood yet smeared his mouth where he’d torn out the big cat’s throat.
The attack had been fast. It had surprised him. Usually, sabertooths were wise enough to flee, not charge. He had startled it. He had been too close. It had been in the process of leaping on the amazing woman. If he hadn’t been there, she would be dead, meat in the great cat’s belly.
Manus made an angry sound. Later tonight, once he had the woman in camp, he would send men back into the swamp to retrieve the sabertooth’s corpse. He would feast on the beast. He would eat its heart and devour the valor of the cat, adding it to himself.
Manus bit back a groan. His wound throbbed. He glanced at the blood-soaked bandage he’d circled around the wound, tying it with his teeth and good hand. It might be wiser to retreat out of this forsaken marsh and sprint to Shiva. The god would heal him. The god had amazing powers. The good sense of the idea wrestled against his anger, and his lust.
He hated this marsh. He hated the thousands of hiding spots where a woman and brat could hide. He should leave them. He should retreat from this sea of mud and buzzing insects.
“No,” he rumbled. He shook his head. He wore a golden helmet. The check guard was gouged. It had saved him from the sabertooth’s claws. His leather barding had deep furrows in front where the great cat had raked its hind claws. But for his armor, the beast might have disemboweled him.
It had been a worthy fight, the cat a valiant foe, the most dangerous he’d met on this entire journey. The white-haired fool in the mountain village had been interesting. Was that why he desired the woman so intently?
Manus paused. He towered over the reeds. He was the only one visible for leagues. The sun sank into the western horizon. Behind him, smoke rose from his camp. Manus closed his eyes. He felt beads of sweat trickle down his face. He felt the throb of his wound. He would kill the boy before her eyes. He might even cut strips of the brat’s flesh and force her to feed on them. She had dared defy him. Her insolence had caused this wounding.
Manus Farstrider opened his eyes. She was pretty, but there were many prettier. In the god’s harem—
Manus grinned. She was pretty, and she was valiant. She was cunning. She had heart. He admired those things. She had lied to him about the brat. She was a virgin, unsoiled by the rutting of the beasts that styled themselves ‘men.’ He would lay with her. He would use her many, many times. He would put his seed into her belly that it would swell and bear a strapping son, with a hero’s courage. Oh, he would use her in countless ways.
Even though he was wounded and angry, the thought of striping her and taki
ng her in ugly ways fired his lust. He would teach her what it meant that he was a Nephilim. She would learn to sing his name. She would learn to kneel, to kiss his feet, to plead for his embrace. She would worship him as a god. She would adore him, and fear him. Because of the sabertooth, she would always fear him. He would see to that.
Manus scanned the darkening maze of reeds. He used his instincts—
There! The reeds swayed against the gentle breeze. There, the woman must have seen him and tried to crawl away. But she had betrayed her spot.
Manus lurched several more steps. Mud sucked at his boots. The bushy tips of bulrushes swayed against his hips. He took long strides, and then stopped. He held himself perfectly still, held his breath and listened.
Ah, he heard a sick groan, a plea perhaps. It was the boy, the dying lad. He had given them away.
Chuckling silently, Manus Farstrider enjoyed the moment. He savored this. He had fought and killed a sabertooth barehanded. Instead of it tearing out his life, he had torn out the cat’s. A brave and cunning woman had thought to outwit the son of a god. Now he would capture her and begin the fierce enjoyment of using her many, many times. It had been hard not raping her the first time. But he had learned in his long life, that savoring a thing such as that was almost as enjoyable as the act itself.
That was a strange thought. He shrugged, and he began to stride toward the hiding woman.
-10-
Lod and Bosk followed the giant in his golden helmet. From the depths of the reeds, they could easily see the giant’s helmet. The protective reeds, however, would make it hard to for Manus to spy them. The difficulty was in keeping up with the Nephilim’s long strides.
“You have a plan, yes?” Bosk wheezed.
Lod waded through cool water. He felt grass and muck squeeze between his toes. No doubt, leeches and bloodsuckers had attached themselves to him. He would have to sit at a fire later and carefully burn them out of his flesh. That was a tiny price to pay to slay Manus Farstrider. The giant had mocked him. Manus had mocked Elohim.
The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6) Page 13