Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Ut grabbed Lod’s hair, and he dragged Lod down to stare at the crocodile. “You’re the legend of the canals, eh,” said Ut. “Look at your death, bait. Escaping rats is one thing. How do you think you’ll do against a real predator?”

  Lod’s role as bait meant that he floated like a corpse to lure rats near enough for his owner to net. At the last moment, Lod often slashed at rats with stiffened fingers. The tactic baffled the carrion-feeders. It frightened them. It also gave Lod the margin to kick away before his owner’s net or trident took the rat. The hissing crocodile that stared at him with those cold reptilian eyes, with its armored snout, wouldn’t care if he raked it with stiffened fingers. The crocodile would likely snap off his fingers.

  “We’re going to see exactly how legendary, stinking bait like you really is,” mocked Ut. “What do you think about that, eh?”

  Lod didn’t fight the fingers in his hair. Instead, he studied the crocodile, trying to gauge it. The huge reptile looked at him hungrily. It hissed, and it lunged. Lod didn’t flinch, although his youthful eyes narrowed.

  “I asked you a question,” said Ut, shaking Lod’s head. The huge man twisted Lod around, staring down into his eyes.

  Lod mutely stared back.

  Ut gave a cry of rage, and shoved Lod’s face against the wooden bars. The crocodile lunged, snapping its fangs, spewing its foul breath in Lod’s face. At the last second, Ut jerked Lod’s face away.

  “It’s not fair if the bait is too frightened to swim, Great One,” a reaver shouted from the crowd.

  Ut dragged Lod upright.

  Lod’s heart raced. He had almost lost his nose. He had almost lashed out with his foot to kick Ut. He yearned to twist his head and sink his teeth into Ut’s hand. The yearning made Lod tremble.

  “Ha!” shouted Ut. “The legend of the canals shakes with fear.” Ut threw Lod down at his feet. He put a booted foot onto Lod’s back. “The crocodile will squash this legend, just as I could squash him like a beetle.” Ut put pressure on his foot.

  It made Lod grunt.

  “That’s not fair!” shouted a reaver.

  Ut’s eyes narrowed. He stepped down harder.

  Lod endured even as he envisioned twisting around, grabbing Ut’s leg, and throwing his weight against it. He could make Ut fall into the canal. The memory of an Enforcer shoving a stake up a slave’s arse stopped him. Lod clenched his teeth as Ut stepped on him. He would beat the crocodile. He would survive, and someday, he would escape and later burn Shamgar to the ground.

  Ut laughed, taking his boot off Lod. “The legend dies today.” He pointed at a soldier. “You will start the race at my command. Be ready,” said Ut.

  Ut, his hyenas, handlers and most of the rat hunters and reavers climbed into boats, barges and rafts. They worked across the canal to the other side. It was an open area, where industrious hawkers already sold ale, pears and grilled bacon strips. The soldier remained, as did the team of slaves. The slaves lowered the hissing monster and its cage into a boat. The slaves paddled out, aimed the end of the cage at the water and opened a wooden panel. The fifteen-foot crocodile lunged through the opening, sliding into the oily water. Quickly, the slaves paddled away for the opposite bank.

  From there, Ut grew still as he stared at the crocodile.

  Lod felt a peculiar sensation, similar to what had set his teeth on edge earlier. The crocodile floated in the canal like a half-submerged log, with its protruding eyes and nostrils above water. Those crocodilian eyes fixated on Lod, while the rats in the area had fled. People from the stalls and open-air shops shouted and came running to the pier. Many stared at Lod, mumbling that this was the legendary bait. The betting resumed.

  Ut raised his arm.

  “This is it,” said the soldier left behind. He put a calloused hand on Lod’s shoulder.

  Lod wore a rag around his loins and the collar around his neck. Each long, ropy muscle was stark upon his youthful frame.

  “Reach the other bank, and you survive another day,” growled the soldier. “Now go.” He pushed Lod.

  Lod used the soldier’s push to gain momentum, ran three steps and leaped off the pier, jumping as hard as his long legs could. Fear coiled his lean belly, but he had lived with fear for years. He used fear to give him extra strength. Lod jumped, diving over the huge reptile and plunging into the murky water.

  He dove straight down, gliding, keeping his eyes shut. The oily waters were too filthy to see through. He reached the silt-covered bottom, stirring it, making a cloud billow around him. Lod exhaled at that moment, so he wouldn’t float up, and he pushed along the bottom. He didn’t push hard. He floated in the murky realm, moving away from where he had entered the canal. He moved away from where he had stirred the silt. Then he held himself perfectly still.

  The reptilian monster glided near. Lod didn’t see him. His eyes were shut against the filth in the water. He felt the crocodile pass. Lod felt the stir in the water.

  Lod waited as fear beat in his mind. Yes, those teeth could mangle his body. He could end up in the crocodile’s gullet. Yet, now he could fight without worrying about impalement. He felt the water on his skin, the pressure of the depths against his ears. He strained to sense the crocodile. It couldn’t see down here, but it would sense movement. That mighty tail would act like a fin, swiftly propelling the reptile. If Ut mastered the crocodile, maybe Ut could make the beast hunt as he desired. It would be logical to think that fearful rat bait would strike out fast for the other bank. Lod had seen many bait swim frantically, flailing as rats swam near and bit a chunk of flesh out of them. If Ut mastered the crocodile, the beast likely shot toward the other bank, because that’s what Ut expected him to do.

  The need for air became an ache, but Lod waited. Ut had stepped on his back. Ut had shoved his face against the bars. Lod would get revenge by cheating Ut of his death.

  Finally, Lod pushed against the bottom, and he drifted up. He surfaced, and even though his lungs screamed for air, he took a quiet sip. He might have fooled Ut and the crocodile, but he couldn’t fool the entire crowd.

  “There he is!” shouted a man.

  The huge crocodile turned with a smooth twist.

  Lod jackknifed and dove down, touched bottom, and instantly pushed off to the left. He had tricked Ut and the beast once. Now, he hoped, Ut would keep the crocodile hunting along the bottom. A key to fooling hunters was constantly changing your tactic. Lod surfaced with a gasp, and he shot out smoothly for the far bank. He had guessed right. The crocodile no longer swam on the surface, but glided underwater. Lod swam powerfully, with smooth, clean strokes. In all of Shamgar, he doubted that any man, woman or bait could swim as fast as he could. He was the legend of the canals. He had survived years, where other bait survived three weeks. Lod snarled. Ut had pushed his booted foot down on his back.

  The crocodile surfaced with a hiss of rage. Lod looked back with a quick twist of his head. The reptile used its mighty tail, propelling itself at him. Lod grinned wildly. The beast wasn’t going to catch him in time. People shouted on shore. A moment later, Lod grasped the edge of the far canal. He grunted, kicked and hoisted himself out. Water pooled from him, as he stood before the crowd of cheering people.

  “No!” raged Ut. The beastmaster in the mammoth-fur coat stepped near and pressed a huge hand on Lod’s chest. Ut shoved Lod back into the canal.

  A shouted of rage went up from many onlookers.

  Lod twisted as he fell, and he dove, cutting the water smoothly. The crocodile lunged at him. The teeth snapped shut. Lod pulled his legs inward toward his body. The reptilian teeth furrowed his calf muscle, drawing blood, but it didn’t eat his leg. Lod touched bottom, twisted and pushed off. He opened his eyes and saw the blurry dark bulk of the monster above him. Rats were unnerved by his attacks. Maybe, this crocodile wouldn’t expect someone to use its fifteen-foot body against it. Lod shot up, grasped the armored hide and curled his legs up. Underwater, as the crocodile twisted, Lod put his feet on the monster’
s ridged hide and shoved upward as hard as he could. That minutely pushed the crocodile down. Lod surfaced as people cheered and shouted in wonder. He grasped the bank, and once more, hoisted himself up. This time, he watched Ut, ready to dodge the cheater.

  The hyena-master glared at him.

  The crocodile roared from the canal, and it too shot up, struggling to climb the concrete bank.

  The crowd screamed in fear, pushing away from the monster.

  In that moment, Lod debated running for freedom. Then, another man, a bigger man than Ut, also wearing a mammoth-fur coat, surged to the forefront of the crowd. He was a massive, fork-bearded beastmaster, with coarse lips and thick fingers, each fingernail painted black. A cave bear followed him, and a human skull dangled from a chain around the man’s bull-thick throat. The skull had twin rubies for eyes, and terrible evil pulsed from the skull. This towering big man carried a spear.

  The crocodile slid onto the concrete bank. It hissed with rage and lashed its huge tail. Those hungry, knowing eyes fixed on Lod. As fast as a lizard, the crocodile scrambled at him. The towering man with the skull-necklace surged to the forefront. His black boots rang on the stones. The cave bear behind him roared. Then the big man with the skull slammed his spear down on the crocodile’s head. He pinned the crocodile, killing it. He turned in rage toward Ut.

  Lod had won the crocodile race.

  ***

  Deep under the Earth and in his sleep, Lod moaned as he dreamed. He had always wanted to meet Ut again, the half-Nephilim beastmaster. That would never happen now. He was captured and in a place of torment.

  Chapter Six

  Yeb

  “Shall I spit in the wind, shout at a stalking lion or trust a thief?”

  -- Naram the Prophet

  Keros crept through the gloomy maze.

  Pink marks dotted his arms, his hands, and he was certain they marked his neck, face, torso and legs. The healing branded him. If anyone recognized him as the former leper, then the miracle became obvious. Elohim, through Lod, had healed him. Elohim was the great foe of Gog. He was uniquely marked, and therefore, he didn’t dare leave the alleyways.

  Should he gather castoff rags, muddy his face and limp through the city as a leper? Keros shook his head. People often pelted lepers with offal, or they beat them, drove them off.

  He needed a disguise.

  Keros crouched by a rain barrel, an old wooden drum set underneath a lead drainpipe.

  The taverns here had wooden additions. They were extra stories built one atop the other, a full six different levels. They blocked the sunlight. They turned the alleys into a dangerous, murky world. The tenants threw their garbage into the alleys. Thus, canal rats prowled here at night, dogs, drunks and the desperate during the day.

  A bleary-eyed, old man shuffled near. He squinted at Keros, groaned and slid down, gathering a stained blanket around him. The old man, mostly beard and wrinkles, pulled a leather flask from his rags, hunched over it, twisting away from Keros and guzzled. He smacked his lips and let out a bubbly sigh.

  Keros rose.

  The old drunk watched him carefully.

  With a scowl, Keros set out elsewhere. Even in the maze, he was an object of curiosity. He must hide or gain a disguise. The question was how.

  It was then Keros noticed the open window. It was on the fourth story, maybe fifty feet up.

  A grin stretched his lips. He flexed his chest. He exuded in this newfound strength, the energy of a healthy young man. He strode to an old barrel, and shoved it against a drainpipe. He knocked on the wood, testing it, and then he eased onto the barrel. He wrapped his fingers around the pipe, his strong fingers, and with Shurite ease, he shimmied up.

  City dwellers! These weak fools thought that fifty vertical feet was an insurmountable barrier. He grabbed the windowsill and hoisted himself to perch like some giant pigeon.

  A fat man snored in the room. He lay on a disheveled pallet, with two empty flagons beside him, and an odor of wine strong within. The room was littered with clothes and several wooden chests. A bar secured his door from intruders.

  In a single bound, Keros was upon the man. He shoved the fleshy face into the spit-stained pillow. The man bucked, and was bigger than Keros was, but Keros held down the head, until the man lost consciousness. Keros yanked the arms behind the man’s back, and tied the wrists with leather thongs ripped from his sandals. With a grunt, Keros rolled the man over and shoved a wadded cloth into his mouth, tying a cord around the lips. He unwound ropes from a chest and tied the man to his bed.

  Keros nodded. Grandfather would have been proud. Sudden, furious assault was the way to raid.

  The fat man shivered awake, and his eyes flew open. He stared at Keros in terror. The man had thinning hair, broken blood vessels around his thick nose, bloodshot eyes and heavy lips…. Thick lips that had often curved into the most ingenious smile that Keros had ever seen.

  “Yeb,” he said, as if spitting poison out of his mouth.

  The bound man made “mmmm” sounds.

  Keros squinted. He turned to the big chests. A lock padded each. He kicked a chest. It thumped as if full. “Where’s the key, Yeb?”

  “Mmmmm.”

  Keros grinned. “Just point it out with your eyes.”

  Yeb dared shake his head.

  Keros let his grin turn mean. This was Yeb the Fence, a dealer in stolen goods. As a beggar, Keros had often watched Yeb make his dirty exchanges.

  Keros drew his dagger.

  Yeb shook his head again, but this time with a new emphasis as his eyes popped up froglike. “Mmmmm.” Yeb stared at the floor. He shifted his gaze repeatedly at a certain spot.

  Keros noticed a tunic, and checked its pockets. Coppers jingled and he felt a key. With it, Keros unlocked the nearest chest.

  Yeb groaned.

  Keros picked up a silver cup and a brass candleholder. He nodded. “You’ve done well, Yeb. You’re a rich man.”

  On many dark nights, Keros had watched Yeb accept stolen items from urchins, paying them scant coppers in return. The thick-lipped fence made his living by cheating the lads. Sometimes, he did worse than simply cheat them. Once, an urchin with a withered arm had wanted silver shekels for a golden statuette. Yeb had said let him examine it first. The urchin shook his head. So Yeb reached in his pouch and drew out a fist, causing the boy to slink closer in curiosity. (Keros had been lying in the dark that night watching.) Yeb had tossed sand in the boy’s eyes, knocked him down and kicked him in the stomach. Then, he had dragged the boy to the canal. Squealing rats fighting over the corpse had kept Keros awake half the night, while the brutality of the act had renewed his loathing for Shamgar.

  “I know you, Yeb.”

  The fence struggled, as sweat oozed from his skin. The bed creaked from his efforts. Ropes pressed into his flesh.

  Keros pricked him.

  The fat man froze. He tried to peer down at the dagger at his throat.

  “No noise now, Yeb. Do you understand?”

  “Mmmm. Mmmm.”

  “Just nod, my friend”

  The fat man nodded.

  Keros winked, and then turned to ransack the cupboards. He devoured a bowl of figs, half a loaf of stale bread and washed it down with watery beer. For the first time… in a long, long time, he felt full. He had forgotten the feeling. It made him drowsy.

  So Keros kept moving. He checked the inside of each chest and found clothes, boots and material to fashion a Jogli disguise. Jogli were southern nomads, and wore garments head to heel. In the last chest, in a false bottom, Keros found a sack of shekels.

  The fat fence glared at him.

  Before Keros could comment, he heard voices from out of the window, powerful voices, loud and demanding. He eased to the window, and from the side, peered down. Two brown-clad attendants talked in the alley. One had gray hair and was thin. He asked a drunk if he had seen anyone strange pass by.

  Keros held his breath.

  The drunk rolled over, p
ulling a rag over his head. One attendant shrugged. The gray-haired attendant fingered the hilt of his short sword. He had a burn scar on his cheek, and seemed like an old, grizzled hound, cunning in the chase. He made a rude sound, and the two attendants moved on.

  Keros let out his breath. Gog’s men already hunted for him. He had to keep moving. A trapped raider was a dead raider. He frowned, glanced at Yeb. The fence stared at the wall. Grandfather had said there were several ways to gain information from a captive. Some of those methods were savage. “Just make sure they fear you,” had said old One-Eye. “Fear loosens lips.”

  “Yeb!”

  The bound man faced him.

  Keros drew his knife and dropped a silk kerchief over it. The floating silk dropped onto the blade and parted into halves. With a grin, Keros lowered the blade over Yeb’s eyes.

  “Two pokes, Yeb, two flicks of the wrist and you will never see again.”

  “Mmmmmmm.”

  Deftly, Keros cut the gag. “Spit out the cloth.”

  Yeb obeyed, using his tongue to force out the wad of material.

  Keros pricked Yeb’s throat. Blood welled. The fat man lay very still.

  “Good. You’re learning. Now: Which is the easiest canal to escape out of Shamgar?”

  “What—”

  Keros laid the blade across Yeb’s lips.

  The many chins quivered.

  “Answer as fast as you can, and keep your voice down.”

  “You can trust me,” whispered Yeb.

  Something cold went through Keros as he remembered the one-armed urchin. The fence paled, and Keros decided that Yeb was ready to talk. The fence answered question after question, Keros flinging a bewildering number, one right after the other. Sprinkled among the many, were the few he actually wanted to know. When he was done, Keros re-gagged and blindfolded Yeb, and debated killing him. Grandfather and old One-Eye would have. But, didn’t he have enough blood on his hands? Slaughtering helpless foes wouldn’t win him Elohim’s favor.