The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “You can’t just charge the Nephilim,” Bosk wheezed. “He isn’t just another lowlander you can heave your hatchet at. You need a plan. You need cunning. Remember, there are two of us.”

  Lod climbed out of the cool water. He gripped the iron javelin two-handed. Sweat stung his eyes. Dusk settled. In the distance, Manus hurried.

  “Lod,” said Bosk, dropping a huge hand onto his shoulder. “What is your plan?”

  Lod whirled around. He shoved his javelin before Bosk’s coarse features. Lod shook the javelin. “I will shove this into Manus Farstrider and watch him die.”

  “He will cut you down with his sword before you ever reach him,” Bosk said.

  “No! Now, it is my turn.”

  “Listen to me—”

  Lod shrugged the big man’s hand off his shoulder. He dared jump up and caught a glimpse of the giant. Manus hurried. The Nephilim seemed intent.

  Lod growled low in his throat like an animal. His heart beat with rage and remembered wrath. Bosk said something to him. He had no idea what. He was beyond listening to secretive plans. He was the knife of Elohim and the hour was upon him. He had slain lowlanders, and now the evil one who collected slaves for the god of Shiva breathed his last few breaths of life.

  Lod had waited for this moment many days. He had dreamed of it while pinned to the cabin. The thought of challenging a giant and slaying him single-handedly, with his own weapon, it was a heady feeling.

  Lod blue eyes shined like a desert prophet on the verge of divination. He began to chant under his breath as he broke into a trot. He had learned the chant in his blood-soaked dreams of vengeance. The words boiled past his ragged throat. They came unbidden to his chapped lips, in a tone not quite his own. And they propelled his weary limbs with a final burst of zeal.

  “I will put an end to the arrogance of the haughty and will humble the pride of the ruthless. I will make Nephilim scarcer than pure gold, more rare than the gold of Larak.”

  ***

  Sarah trembled from fear and exhaustion. She had stumbled far and she was covered with slime and mud. Gad coughed weakly. His skin burned with fever and his lips had become encrusted.

  Sarah held him as she squatted on mud. She heard Manus Farstrider approaching. She had failed, and the giant had found her. Gad would die, and she…

  Sarah wanted to bury her head. Instead, she looked up as tears rolled down her dirty cheeks. She didn’t even have the necromancer’s knife anymore. Manus had knocked it out of her hand. She could have escaped from the lowlanders. The Nephilim, however, was too great for her. He had the blood of the gods. Maybe she had been foolish thinking she could cheat him.

  As she heard his mud-sucking, slopping footsteps, she wanted to stand. She dearly wanted to be brave. Fear boiled in her gut, and her limbs wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Gad moaned.

  Then an immense presence towered over her. It was a palpable force, a terror of strength and indomitable will. Who could defeat the Nephilim? Who could escape the sons of the god of Shiva?

  “Woman,” the Nephilim said. He had such a deep voice. In might have been noble. Instead, to her, it sounded like a thing of nightmare, a demon vomited up by this stinking swamp.

  Sarah looked up, and the sight shocked her. In the last light of dusk, bloody Manus Farstrider regarded her. His left arm hung limply. A drop of blood dripped from a fingertip. The sabertooth had wounded the giant. There was a smear of dried blood around the giant’s mouth. Could the giant have used his teeth against the big cat?

  Manus Farstrider grinned. He was handsome like a god and merciless like a demon. He was so tall, so large and so utterly unbeatable.

  “Stand up,” he said.

  “Kill me,” she whispered.

  The smile drained from his godlike face. He grimaced as he reached across his body. With the slow, sliding sound of metal against leather, he drew a huge sword. The blade was as long as most men.

  She trembled. The sword was razor-sharp, a deadly instrument of war. It was a bar of death. He aimed the tip of the terrible sword at her.

  “Stand,” he said.

  Despite her resolve, Sarah groaned and forced herself to her feet. Who could resist such a being? No mortal man, that was utterly clear out here in the swamp.

  “Step aside from the boy.”

  Sarah blinked back tears. She almost threw herself onto Gad, to cover his body with hers. She so desperately wanted to live, however. Perhaps if she’d been given another few seconds, she would have done so. Instead, before she could decide, the huge sword thrust down, the tip entering Gad’s chest.

  Poor Gad’s eyes flared open all the way. His head and legs surged up. The razor-sharp bar of death slid deeper into him. Gad coughed, and blood trickled from his mouth. Then he lay back. He relaxed and died as his spirit left his feverish body.

  With a horrible sound, the sword left the corpse.

  Sarah moaned as she sank to her knees. Her hand hovered over Gad, over his corpse. She had hauled him for so long. He had suffered—

  Hatred swelled in her heart. Her head jerked up as she glared at Manus.

  “You monster!” she hissed.

  “Deluded woman, do you think slaying a bantling is the depth of degradation? He was dying. I merely granted him the mercy of a swift death.”

  “You could have saved him.”

  “I’ll give you another,” Manus said.

  Uncomprehending, Sarah blinked at him.

  “In your belly,” Manus said. “I will give you another to coo over, another to love.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “I will mount you like a steed,” he boasted. “I will ride you with pleasure. Perhaps you shall buck, as a wild filly should. But in time, you will become tamed to my touch and crave it like any well-trained beast.”

  Sarah lurched to her feet, shuffling back. “You’re a monster.”

  “I am a Nephilim, a master—your master—for many, many nights of rutting pleasure.”

  “Never,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he said. Then Manus turned his head. He scowled at something in the reeds that Sarah couldn’t see. He half-turned, facing what he looked at. “Who is there? Speak!”

  To Sarah’s disbelief, she heard a voice out of the grave, out of the past.

  “I have hunted you, Nephilim. And today, Elohim will give you into my hands.”

  Sarah blinked stupidly. That had sounded like Lod. But Lod was dead, pinned to a mountain cabin.

  Then reeds parted and she saw the impossible: wild-eyed Lod holding the giant’s javelin.

  ***

  “How is it you still live?” the giant demanded.

  Lod found it hard to think, hard to speak. At a glance, he saw Gad lying as still as death. Blood welled from the sword wound in his chest. So, Manus had slain the boy. It was a cruel act, so very worthy of the Nephilim.

  “Answer me, gnat,” said Manus.

  Lod looked up at the giant, at the warrior easily twice his height and many times his weight. It was one thing to dream of facing a giant, but it was another actually standing before one, with a huge sword in his hand. Lod noted the wounded left arm. That was something. That was a gift, a promise of his coming victory.

  “You were a fool to come hungering for your death,” Manus said. “This time, I will gut you. I will spread out your intestines for the vultures to feast upon.”

  Lod bellowed with rage. He lifted the war-hatchet from his belt, and he hurled it at the giant. With a deft twist of his sword, the giant parried it, making a loud clink and producing a spark.

  “You’re fast, beast, but I’m faster,” Manus said. “Come, shuffle a little nearer. Taste my steel as it enters your body. Know the futility—”

  A bear-like roar sounded from behind Manus. The Nephilim jumped to the side, twisted his head and shouted in surprise. Bosk charged. Spikes gleamed from his fists. They were Great Arena cesti. Manus Farstrider swung his sword, bringing it down and around in a deadly arc.
Bosk threw himself flat onto the slimy soil. The sword swished over him.

  Lod charged with a leopard’s speed. He marveled at the Nephilim’s reflexes. Manus shifted as he brought his sword back around. Before Manus had his guard up, Lod rammed the iron javelin into the giant’s hip, driving it deep. The giant howled, twisted, and the hilt of his sword struck Lod a numbing blow.

  Bosk was up, and he punched with fury. The spikes embedded into the giant’s thigh. He swung with the other fist, sinking more spikes into Nephilim flesh. Then, Manus’s great sword sliced Bosk, cleaving meat from the big man. It sent Bosk reeling.

  Lod shouted. He picked up the fallen hatchet. Foam flecked at the corners of his mouth. He charged blindly, and he caught Manus off-balance. With his left hand, he gripped Manus’s belt. He reached up, hacking. Being off-balance, and with this scrambling weight, Manus fell backward. The giant hit heavily, and he immediately began to twist and heave. Lod let go of the hatchet and drew his short sword. He drove his sword through the tough leather armor and into the giant’s side. Steel grated against bone. Lod clutched the hilt with both hands and shoved until the cross-guard slapped against bloody leather. Then, the giant’s thrashing threw him into the reeds.

  Lod scrambled up first. Then Bosk dragged himself to his feet. Blood covered him, and his coarse face was ghastly with a vile smile. Lastly, Manus heaved up to his knees. He dragged the iron javelin out of his hip and let the weapon drop. The short sword in his side—

  Manus blinked at Bosk. He shook his head. “You,” he whispered.

  “Yes, Father,” Bosk said. “We will not meet again, eh?” The mighty man toppled backward and lay still.

  Moving his neck like rusted iron, Manus regarded Lod. “I killed you in the mountains,” he said.

  Lod’s shoulders were hunched. He ached all over. His axe, sword and javelin—

  Manus coughed wetly, and he swayed. “I killed you. You should be dead.”

  “I am the knife of Elohim,” Lod said in a ragged voice.

  Rage filled Manus. He struggled to rise—and failed. He groped for the iron javelin, clutched it, but seemed unable to lift it off the ground.

  “This night, you have been given into my hands,” Lod intoned.

  “Never,” Manus said. He struggled once more, and coughed more wetly, spitting blood.

  “You crushed my talender,” Lod said.

  “You fool—”

  Lod roared, charged, beat aside the giant’s attempt to defend himself and knocked him backward. Then, Lod yanked the short sword from Manus’s side and proceeded to hack the giant into bloody ribbons. Such was the vitality of a giant that it took Manus a long time to die.

  Sarah, meanwhile, cradled dead Gad, weeping.

  -11-

  Many hours later, the last of the slaver henchmen sat around the fires. They whispered among themselves, wondering what could have happened to Manus Farstrider and the others.

  The chained slaves seemed restless. There was talk about butchering the slaves and leaving this country. Fear of Manus kept the henchmen from implementing the awful plan.

  “Look,” one said, pointing.

  Out of the darkness strode a bloody man with white hair. He carried something heavy in his fist. In his other hand was a large iron javelin. It was then they noticed the crazed eyes, the seeming madness there. The man marched into the firelight.

  He lifted his burden. It was a giant’s severed head, the face mutilated. The man laughed insanely, and he twirled the head two times before pitching it at the slavers around the nearest fire.

  “I have purchased your lives with that head,” the wild man said. “But tonight I will grant you mercy. Take the head to the god of Shiva. Tell him that his days are numbered.”

  The henchmen murmured among themselves.

  “Go!” the white-haired man roared. “Go while I grant you mercy. Run! Or you will all die!”

  Several lowlanders backed away from the fires.

  “It is Manus Farstrider’s head,” a henchman said, he who crouched by the head.

  In horror, the surviving slavers looked at the wild man.

  “Go!” he snarled, brandishing the iron javelin. “Before I decide to drink your lives as I have the Nephilim’s.”

  Several henchmen had already run away into the darkness. Manus Farstrider was dead. His head—

  “Tell them Lod, the knife of Elohim, slew the giant! Tell them Manus Farstrider is only the first one to fall before the coming wrath.”

  Then all the slavers were running, fleeing the wild man with white hair and crazed blue eyes.

  The Sword of Esus

  The Pishon River Valley and the surrounding hills become too dangerous for Lod after he slays Manus Farstrider. He heads northwest to Shinar, the Land between the Rivers. Eventually, he treks upriver to the city of Assur and hires out to Naram-Sin. A spear-armed host marches north to the hill country of Kish. There are rumors concerning barbaric forest tribes and a ritual gathering for their bloody god. Naram-Sin and his host are on the march to quell any barbaric notions of rapine and slaughter, while Lod becomes caught up in a risky adventure.

  Prologue

  “The forest barbarians are notoriously fickle,” Naram-Sin declared. “They could feast for weeks on boar meat and bats, or whatever it is they devour in their gloomy woods. Afterward, they could melt back to their impenetrable hovels, their totemic god utterly forgotten. Or they could howl over some meaningless portent and come screaming across the Hiddekel. But I can’t keep my spearmen sitting on the banks of a flooded river while they decide. My host will starve to death in this miserable scrub.”

  To accentuate his point, the warlord of Assur rapped his iron-shod knuckles on the camp table in his tent. He wore a single gauntlet. He was missing his left hand, lost long ago in his youth to a bear. Naram-Sin was a stout commander, with a curly, blue-black beard, stern features and the hawk-like nose common to those of Assur. He wore a purple-bordered cloak and a bronze, scale-mail shirt.

  The rickety table shook at the impact of his fist, making the candle on it flicker. A sheepskin map of the raging Hiddekel River showed the Zimri Forest to the east of the watery divide and half-civilized Kish to the west. The people of Kish were tributary allies of Assur, which was one of the most powerful cities in the land of Shinar to the south. Naram-Sin was the city’s most seasoned commander, a warlord who had never failed at his stated task.

  Outside the tent, and in the fading light, waited three thousand city spearmen, another thousand javelin-throwers of Kish and fifty deadly charioteers. Among them were camp followers and opportunistic merchants who catered to the needs of soldiers.

  Despite Naram-Sin’s importance and his considerable wealth, the horsehide tent was sparse. There was a cot, a campaign chest, a stand for his armor and a flagon of vinegar-tasting wine beside it. The light came from the fading sun outside and the tent’s single candle.

  The warlord spoke to two unsavory ruffians, hastily summoned several minutes ago to his tent. The first was a large mountain warrior of Arkite Land, a rough fighter in furs and leather. He was handsome, with an outrageously large red mustache and pale skin. Beside him was a strange warrior, young, white-haired and with intense blue eyes.

  “I’ve summoned you two for a singular reason,” Naram-Sin said. “You, Hul, are brash, loud and similar in custom to those of Zimri. I’d have let my officers hang you long ago for seducing their wives. But none is better at scouting the lay of the land than you. You’re also handy with your axe, I’ve noticed, and are never shy when a brawl is in session.”

  “What do you want done, Lord?” asked Hul, the mountain warrior.

  Naram-Sin scowled. “I haven’t yet given you leave to speak. But never mind that now. That’s part of your uncouth nature. The Zimrians are much like those of Arkite Land, I’m told.”

  This time, Hul kept silent. Heavily-armed guards waited outside the tent. At a word from Naram-Sin, they would enter and precisely obey his orders, whateve
r they might be. The big mountain warrior hunched like a brute and kept his face neutral.

  Naram-Sin grunted, and with his armored hand, he opened a pouch at his belt. He dug out double-weight gold shekels of Larak. These he clinked one on top of the other, building an impressive stack.

  Hul’s eyes gleamed with avarice.

  “You’ve been a sell-sword many years,” Naram-Sin said. “And never in your life, I’d warrant, have you seen a stack of gold like that waiting for you.”

  Hul shook his head.

  Naram-Sin nodded briskly. “Even so, that’s how I plan to reward you, Hul, and you, too, Lod, for doing my bidding.”

  Lod stirred moodily, listening, little caring about gold.

  “It’s a dangerous thing I ask,” Naram-Sin said. “But you’re brash enough,” he told Hul. “You must cross the Hiddekel and join the Zimrians in their gathering. I am blind concerning their plans. So are the Kish. You two will be my eyes and ears. I want to know how they will react these next few weeks. I want to know their mood. If you can, discover if bribery will sway the chieftains toward peace.”

  Lod’s head twitched as his features soured.

  Naram-Sin must have noticed, for he studied Lod. The warlord of Assur stroked the beak of his nose. “You’re a silent brooder, I know. And none may change your opinions concerning the gods and the Nephilim. Such one of my officers told me about you. They say most of the soldiers fear you, and that even some of the officers become nervous in your presence. Your task will be to handle the boat that crosses the flooded river. Strange as it seems for one so pious, I’m told you were once of Shamgar, that den of pirates and thieves.”

  “I was rat bait there,” Lod said, “a slave.”

  A hint of distaste touched Naram-Sin’s lips. Like many of his kind, he looked down on those of servile origin.

  “A former slave ought to be able to fit in amongst feasting barbarians,” Naram-Sin muttered. “Other than fording the raging river, you must keep Hul from reckless bravado. The Zimrian Blood Moon approaches. My Kaldu have cast dire portents concerning it. So if—”