The winter-summer cycle had endured until that dread morning. As he squatted in Shamgar’s alleys, Keros’s thoughts drifted back to that grim day.
***
It began as he chased his goats up a pathless mountain. The cool breeze dried his sweat. Clouds scudded across the sky. His mammoth-hide sandals kept obsidian shale from slashing his feet.
In the middle of a stride, he heard men below shout. With a frown, he peered down. Two little stick figures waved their arms. They held javelins and wore wolf-skin caps.
Keros had left his javelins by the fire. He wore a vest, leather pants and had a sharp flint knife. Such blades were stubby and prone to chipping. A sling was wrapped around his waist. His pouch held three smooth stones.
He studied the two, as they slipped and slid across the shale. They wore linen tunics and had cloaks that hung down to their knees. The linen meant they were warriors, likely veterans of many raids. Keros spied no goats, sheep or even dogs with them, so they hadn’t come to bring a goatherd more animals.
He frowned. They were older men with drooping mustaches. These two probably taught youths the finer points of fighting. Perhaps, they were skilled hunters. Surely, they knew the tricks of ambush and sly methods of entrapment. They would be masters of their chosen weapon.
What did they want with him?
They came to within hailing distance: as far as a Shurite could sling a stone.
“Who are you?” shouted Keros.
One used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Their mouths moved. Since Keros heard nothing he assumed they spoke between themselves.
“Come here!” one shouted.
The other warrior gestured sharply.
Keros’s gut knotted. His father and uncles were dead. He was a goatherd without any promise or clan protection. These two had no legitimate reason to call him.
“Who are you?” he shouted.
The two whispered. Then the first shouted: “We have a message for you.”
The second warrior unwound a sling. He dropped a fist-sized ball into it, and began to twirl it over his head.
Keros had long ago learned to trust actions over words. He scrambled as fast as he could uphill. Obsidian cut his palms. He glanced back. The slinger shot out his arm in rhythm to the blur over his head. A fist-sized lead ball zoomed upward. With a shout, Keros dove. The ball whistled, scraped his leg and then cracked a glassy rock.
Blood oozed from Keros’s thigh as he scrambled faster. His breathing was harsh. He looked back. Another lead ball sped upward. He hurled himself into a tight hollow. Whoosh, crack! Obsidian chips slashed his cheek.
Keros panted. He squeezed closed his eyes. He peeked down-slope.
The slinger released. The other warrior climbed while holding javelins in his fist.
Keros snarled with fear as he hugged the earth, and as a sling-stone hissed overhead.
He couldn’t outrun a sling-stone, not straight up a mountain. If he twirled his own sling, it would be two against one, and they were older men, proven warriors. He knew what his grandfather would do. Keros’s chest turned hollow. He couldn’t do that. The instant he jumped up, the slinger would fling a lead ball into his belly.
He blinked as stinging sweat hurt his eyes. He found that his mouth was bone dry. It was death to wait, death to flee and death to trade slingshots. For him to live… they must die.
Keros’s arms trembled and then his legs. His teeth clacked together. The shaking became uncontrollable. Snot ran out of his nose. With an animal scream, he launched out of the hollow. For that instant, the sky had never looked so blue. The air never tasted so sweet. He charged down-slope.
The climbing warrior paused. The slinger’s arm shot forward. Keros dove and slid on his belly. Rocks slashed his vest. Whoosh! Lead flashed past. Keros sprang up and sprinted across sliding obsidian, holding a stone in one hand and his knife in the other.
The slinger dropped another lead bullet into his sling.
“Hit him in the belly, Ralibar!” shouted the javelin man.
The sling twirled as Keros desperately tried to close the distance. He remembered words, instructions in his mind from lessons taught by old One-Eye. A dark blot zoomed at him. Keros dove and tucked. Rocks slashed his back. Then he was on his feet again, slipping, sliding, the blood pounding in his ears. A bad craziness made him bellow. The javelin man heaved, but shale slid out from under his foot, making it a poor cast. Keros twisted. The iron point furrowed his side, drawing blood. Keros threw his stone. The javelin man jumped aside. Keros bellowed an incoherent cry and crashed into the man. The impact drove the air out of Keros’s lungs. They rolled, the older man grabbing and cursing. Keros plunged sharpened flint into the warrior’s belly. The man screamed. Then, the man’s shoulders smashed against a boulder, and his head cracked back against it.
Keros tore the darts from the man’s twitching hand. He charged the slinger, hurling javelins, not caring if they hit, simply making the slinger dodge. This warrior, however, was more cunning than the first. As Keros tried to crash upon him, the man sidestepped and stuck out a foot. Keros hit the ankle, rolled and somehow landed on his feet. The older warrior’s eyes blazed. He spewed profanities as he jerked out a flint knife of his own. In a crouch, they circled. Keros panted and his ankle throbbed. He stared at the lined face, at the scars and those hate-filled green eyes. He recognized the warrior.
“You’re Volfson’s man.”
“And you’re dead,” said the slinger, lunging. Keros blocked with his knife. Flint chips flew. The older warrior paled as he backpedaled.
Keros realized that the man knew slings but not knives, not like old One-Eye. They circled, smelling each other’s sweat, watching, gauging. Keros faked a cut. The slinger flinched.
“I can kill you,” said Keros. Old One-Eye had believed that a debilitating thing to say.
The slinger’s eyes tightened. He lunged. Keros grabbed the thick wrist as the knife grazed his ribs. The slinger was strong. The older warrior shouted in triumph. Keros struck like a viper, and plunged his flint into the slinger’s chest. The knife sank, snapped, and the slinger fell to the ground with a grunt. Keros backed off. He began to collect javelins.
Blood oozed from the man’s chest. It was so crimson. The slinger wheezed and tried to sit up.
“Why did you try to kill me?” asked Keros.
“Help me,” whispered the slinger.
“Your chieftain courted my mother.”
“Help me,” said the slinger, and he died.
Victory tasted—Keros fell to his knees and puked. He trembled, aching all over. It was only several minutes later that he forced himself to lift one of the warrior’s canteens, slaking a raging thirst.
Volfson’s clan had been in feud with Keros’s, what little was left of it. But his father was dead. So Volfson, who had always lusted after Keros’s mother, had sent word that he wished to marry her. Volfson had offered Grandfather many goats and an older widow. All he must say was yes. “Never!” had said Grandfather.
Were these two warriors Volfson’s latest offer?
Leaving his goats, Keros ran for home, avoiding everyone, traveling downhill the entire way. Two days later, he found the charred remains of their hut. In the middle of it, there was a gory spear, with his grandfather’s severed head atop the spear.
Numb and confused, Keros buried the head and burned the spear. The flint tip he crushed with a rock. Only then did he trudge for Volfson’s camp.
Keros’s mother, Zaya, was beautiful, a Huri maid long ago captured in the lowland forests. She had been her husband’s pride. Grandfather had loved her, too, but on clan matters, he was immovable.
Keros plotted with all the cunning old One-Eye had taught him. He loved his mother, but he had adored his grandfather.
Three weeks later, a one-eyed singer limped into Volfson’s camp. It lacked a palisade. The Shurite saying went: ‘Our spears will defend us.’ Perhaps thirty warriors and their families followed Volfson. Most
lived in the center lodge, eating at night on reed mats and listening to singers chant. A ceiling hole served as chimney, and thick leather sacks in lieu of chests. These sacks were used as chairs for the warriors. Everyone else sat in the dirt or on reed mats. The men herded goats, sheep and hunted. As chieftain, Volfson made the prayers and sacrifices to Elohim. The women bore children, sewed, cooked and gave sage advice.
The singer limping into Volfson’s camp wore ragged garments and an eye-patch. Cuts lined his face and a cloth bandage protected a broken nose. When asked, the singer told a woeful tale of bandits beating him for his silver lyre.
As a matter of course, he was given boiled meat and watery beer. Singers were highly regarded in the Hills of Paran. No chieftain turned one away. In the act of hospitality, the singer put himself under the chieftain’s protection. Guest rights and obligations came upon the eating of salt and drinking beer. In effect, he became a clan member for the duration of his stay. For anyone to strike him, would bring savage justice from Volfson, an older man, with a long, drooping mustache and erect bearing. Volfson had eagle eyes, as the saying went, was proud and overbearing, with a sharp laugh, and a wit that made the maidens laugh.
The singer noted beautiful Zaya, and how Volfson fawned on her. She seemed entranced with the singer. In the middle of the second day, when he peeled a walking stick, she settled beside him. He sat cross-legged by a tall boulder near camp. At the top of the rock, a yellow-crested lark whistled a melody. Zaya had long, dark hair and deeply dark eyes. She was slender, despite her years, and had that vibrant way men loved. She wore a dress newly given her by Volfson, her husband of twenty days.
“Why the disguise?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”
The singer regarded the older beauty.
“No,” she said. “Volfson doesn’t know it’s you.”
“He sent warriors to kill me?”
“Please don’t lie to me, Keros. Your grandfather hated that above all else.”
“I know very well what Grandfather hated, Mother. Do you know that your new husband had Grandfather killed?”
Zaya bit her lip. She had pearly white teeth, the front one with a tiny chip at the bottom corner.
“Did you watch them slay Grandfather?” he asked.
She stared at him wide-eyed.
Keros loved his mother, but he had adored his grandfather. “They spiked his head on a pole.”
Zaya turned pale.
After a time, the singer began to peel his stick.
“What are you going to do?” she whispered.
Keros shrugged.
“You’ve eaten Volfson’s salt and drunk his beer,” she said.
“That is true.”
“Thus, you can longer harm him or he you.”
“That is our custom,” he agreed.
“I congratulate you on your cunning, Keros. Now, I shall tell Volfson you’re here.”
He touched her forearm and shook his head.
“You ate his salt,” she whispered. “You drank his beer.”
“I am all alone against many.”
Zaya leaned near. Her breath smelled like lilacs. “Listen to me, Keros. The laws forbid you to harm him.”
Keros jabbed the tip of the peeled stick into the dirt. Each time he thrust it in a little harder. Then it snapped in half. He studied the broken half in his hand, and finally pitched it aside. In a soft voice, he said, “Volfson put Grandfather’s head on a pole.”
“Keros, this is madness!”
“He sent two warriors to kill me.”
“I can’t believe that. No. It’s impossible.”
Keros stared her in the eye.
Zaya turned away, putting a hand over her mouth. “I wanted a man while I had the beauty to capture a chieftain. Was that so wrong?”
Keros’s stomach churned. “Will you tell him it’s me?”
“Oh, Keros.” She touched his cheek. Her fingers lingered. Then she hurried back to the lodge.
That evening, he complained about a sore throat, thus begging off another night of tale telling. When the fire died, everyone lay on the woven mats. Men, women and children slept with their feet to the coals, as they wrapped themselves in their individual cloaks.
In the middle of the night, Keros opened his eyes. A hound whined in its sleep. Mats creaked. Smoke trickled out of the hole in the ceiling. A star twinkled there. If he didn’t move now, he never would.
Like a snake, Keros eased out of his borrowed cloak. A warrior stirred. Someone mumbled. Keros kept on crawling. The straw strewn over the dirt rustled under his hands. The hearth glowed, giving him the barest of light. In the gloom, he made out his mother. Volfson had his arms around her. For a moment, he wondered why it had to be this way. He took a deep breath, sliding his knees by Volfson’s head. The chieftain snored, his bristly mustache hiding the fact of his few front teeth.
His mother’s eyes opened. They were indeed beautiful pools of night.
He nodded.
She gasped, ready to scream, her gazed riveted on his stubby flint knife. She turned away as she suppressed a groan.
Volfson snorted and his eyes flew open.
Keros put his left hand over Volfson’s face and pushed, exposing the chieftain’s throat. The man squirmed. Keros slashed. His mother screamed, and Volfson shuddered and gurgled.
Keros watched the blood soak his mother. Then he was up and sprinting over sleeping bodies and barking dogs. He crashed through the door, his feet pounding dirt. He fled for his life.
“Murderer! Oath breaker! Stop him! He killed Volfson!”
Keros ran into the pines, and an awful, terrible guilt swept over him. Oath breaker. They meant him. He ran by starlight. If they caught him, his death would be hard and torturously long. Every hand would be against him now. No one in the Land of Shur would take him in. Oath breaker.
***
Keros blinked. He crouched in an alleyway, where urine and wine-vomit odors assaulted him. He was trapped in Shamgar. He jerked open his hand. The precious knife clattered onto pavement. He flexed his fingers. Oath breaker. Yet now he had been healed. Had he been forgiven his terrible sin?
Keros stared at the blade. It had a watery edge, strange and eerily sharp.
He had no rank, no title and was no longer of any clan or tribe. But he was healed. He was no longer a leper and a cripple. He must free Lod. Impossible, yes, he knew that. But oh, what a raid it would be. He would slip into Gog’s Temple and steal what the First Born most prized. Keros felt certain that Grandfather would have approved.
Keros picked up the knife. He hated Shamgar. He didn’t understand it, didn’t understand any city. But raiding… he had been trained for that his entire life.
Chapter Four
Gog
Do not practice divination or sorcery.
-- The Book of Adam
On Shamgar’s central isle rose a rocky acropolis, a granite plateau fifty feet higher than the swampy terrain around it. The Temple of Gog stood on the acropolis. It had been fashioned long ago in the days of Magog. He had been a bene elohim and was the sire of Gog. The edifice was unlike any in the city. Like a gigantic spider, it loomed over its web of violence and piracy. Marble, imported from an unknown source, towered twenty stories high in a vast, cyclopean cathedral of evil. It was a gargantuan Temple, a symbol of megalomania, arrogance and will to power.
Broad steps, that only a giant could comfortably use, had been carved into the acropolis. It led to a sprawling plaza and then a stone wharf, which adjoined the city’s largest canal. The canal was the width of a medium-sized river, and presently a melon barge passed a war-galley, which was straining its oars. Other boats were tied to the moorings. People in purple, scarlet and decked with precious stones and pearls, stepped from the pier and onto the cobblestone plaza. Huge bronze braziers, on tripods, dotted the area. Shaven-headed priests attended the coal fires, burning incense to Gog. Up the acropolis’s huge steps marched penitents, fortune seekers, glory hounds and
those willing to sell all they owned for a favor from Gog. The King of Pildash and the chief merchants of Dishon had made this trek, as had many of the peoples around the Suttung Sea eager to know the future. In the past, giants had come, as had fiends and Gibborim. From Sippar, Eridu, and mighty Caphtor itself, they came. From far off Poseidonis and Lemuria they had traveled. The sons of Cain had begged an audience with Gog. Uruk’s feral tribe had sent representatives. From all around the world, knowledge-seekers journeyed to Shamgar, to make the final trek up the broad steps, and bow and scrape for admittance into the Temple.
Up those steps now hurried Vidar, his sword clattering at his side.
The Temple of Gog was unlike any other building within the city. Vast marble blocks, sitting without mortar, one upon the other, the Temple rose twenty stories high. Upon every inch of marble stood out bas-relief images of leviathans, behemoths, sabertooth cats and champions leading mobs captive. There were warriors in chariots and galleys firing catapults. Stars had been carved into the marble, moons, suns, slith and eagles. A pantheon of First Born marched to war: Tarag of the Sabertooths, Yorgash, Jotnar, the Nameless One and Draugr Trolock-Maker. The Old Ones also posed in marble: Azel the Accursed, Dagon, Magog, Moloch the Hammer and Anak, the Father of Jotnar. Many graven eyes peered from the marble, while marble ears seemed to listen. Trees, clouds, hills, lakes, horses, war-dogs and trumpeting mammoths, all appeared in stone. The Temple was a masterwork of art, while high near the marble roof spanned arches to let in the sunlight. This was the Temple of Gog, the Oracle, where the future could be foretold—for a price.
Each child of the bene elohim, unto the third generation, had a gift, an ability that was all his own. Gog the Oracle could foretell the future… sometimes, in a spotty fashion, when he applied his powers to pierce the mystic veil.
Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) Page 4