Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Land,” he croaked, this his first word in weeks.

  He slithered onto his shrunken belly and plunged his hands into the sea. He grunted with effort, struggling to move his plank. The waterlogged wood was too ungainly to move easily, and the ocean swells and current had its own destination in mind.

  Lod soon panted, and he glared with savage intensity. How far was the land? He rubbed his eyes. Could those distant specks be birds, or were they simply more sun-induced spots that he’d seen for weeks?

  He swallowed in a thirst-racked throat. Should he dare sail into the boiling sea or take this slim chance for land? Supple as an otter, he dove into the green murk. Long ago, he had been rat bait in the canals of Shamgar. Breeching his final reserves of strength, Lod struck out for what he hoped was land.

  ***

  “Master, this is incredible. I—”

  “Fool, I grow weary of your ineptitude. No more excuses. I must know. You must make him talk.”

  “Yes, Master. It’s just that he is so strong-willed. I meant to rescue him, but he dove off the plank before I could appear. Only a madman would do that.”

  “He is Lod. Now, you have one more chance.”

  “…Yes, Master, this time I shall not fail.”

  ***

  Hurried feet pounded in the dark as two men raced into the lantern-light. Lod wore a black cloak and hood, with a curved dagger in his hands. He followed a slender assassin, a cat-quick killer in similar garb. They sprinted softly, past tall columns of stone, shadows writhing in the lantern-light. The fluted columns were pillars in a palace. Outside, crowds chanted. They waited for the prince to arrive, so he could be crowned King of Sippar, King of the Five Cities.

  “We’re late,” said the assassin. He dashed from a column and onto a tiled mosaic plaza within the inner courtyard. Lod followed hot on his heels. Tonight, they must slay the imposter, put there by Gog the Oracle, enemy of humanity and shadow plotter. Only yesterday had Lod learned of the treachery. It was a wicked, clever plan, like most the First Born hatched. Crown the imposter King of Sippar, so he could lead the Five Cities against Caphtor, first city of man, long ago built by Seth, the son of Adam. Then, when the cities of the valley battled those on the coast, then the armies of Shamgar would join the Jogli nomads and giants from Giant Land. Together, they would destroy great Caphtor at last.

  The chanting in the street grew loud. The mobs yearned for the imposter, the supposed prince.

  “Are you ready?” whispered the assassin.

  “For Elohim,” said Lod.

  For a brief moment, everything swirled around him and grew unsteady. Lod groaned. His head throbbed. It seemed as if the hall was ghostly, unreal and insubstantial.

  “Be careful what you say,” warned the assassin.

  Lod glanced at the assassin, and when he looked back at the corridor, it was whole again. “What just happened?”

  “There’s no time to explain,” said the assassin. “Here we are.” He tapped an ornate door. A carved lion image held the knocker in its jaws.

  A peephole slid open, and an eye peered at them. Red flames flickered behind that eye. Strange, why was there a fire in the palace?

  “Whom did Lod heal?” asked the one with the staring eye.

  The assassin turned to Lod. He wore a cloth mask. Only his eyes showed and bits of long red hair. “Well?” he whispered.

  “What?” said Lod.

  “He wants the password. Don’t worry. I’ve already paid him.”

  Lod pushed aside the assassin. He peered at the staring eye.

  “Whom did you heal today?”

  “Who are you?” asked Lod.

  “One who wishes to help you.”

  “Yes. But who are you?”

  “There’s no time to go through all this,” said the assassin. “Listen to the crowds. The imposter comes.”

  Lod cocked his head. Indeed, the chanting was loud and strong, and it… it hurt his head. Why should it do that?

  “Quickly,” said the one behind the door, peering at Lod with an eerie intensity. “Whom did you heal?”

  Lod licked his lips. “Elohim,” he whispered.

  The door shimmered. The chanting changed in tone, turning evil and sinister, as if with spells.

  “Don’t say that name,” warned the assassin, whispering into his ear.

  “Why not?” asked Lod.

  “Trust me on this.”

  Lod considered that. “Elohim,” he said.

  “Speak not his name!” ordered the one with the single eye, the one behind the door.

  “Elohim!” shouted Lod. “Elohim, hear my cry!”

  The door, the wall and the darkness swirled and parted, and… Lod blinked, groaned and found that his wrists and ankles were manacled to a block of stone. The single eye peering down at him retreated into shadows. Two upright tridents flanked him, one on either side. They glowed, radiating heat and evil, and were the only source of light in this dreadful place. Lod tried to look behind him. A being in armor, with a mask and red hair retreated into the shadows. It seemed he should know that one.

  “You’re a Defender,” said Lod. “You’re Gog’s child. Are you Ut?”

  The tridents glowed brighter and hotter. Sweat leaped onto Lod’s skin.

  “Enough,” rumbled out of the blackness, from the direction the single-eyed one had gone.

  The trident glow dropped to what it had been.

  Lod tested his bonds. He was spread-eagled, somewhere, he surmised, in the lair of Gog.

  “Magic,” Lod said, as if spewing something foul.

  “Leave us,” rumbled the dread voice.

  Lod heard the shuffle of metal and oiled leather.

  “Gog?”

  “I am here.”

  Lod tried to pierce the gloom and shadows. He could not. “Do you hide because you don’t dare face Elohim’s truth?”

  A vast bulk shifted. It was titanic and colossal, evil.

  Lod’s heart raced. He rattled his chains. “You are being cautious. That is wise.”

  “The arrogance of Seraphs is a byword,” rumbled Gog.

  “Not arrogance, simply an understanding of reality.”

  “Don’t speak to me about reality,” said Gog. “Your addled worldview fails to ingest facts. That is a weakness.”

  “Do you mean these chains?”

  “Your chains, yes, and that we speak here, under my Temple. Perhaps also that your army was beaten, and that your allies now lie in my dungeons, or in the guts of cave bears.”

  “I grant you your victory.”

  “Ah, such generosity,” Gog said from the darkness. “Unfortunately for you, I will not be so kind.”

  “But all these things are not reality.”

  “No?”

  “Elohim—”

  A massive sweep of something wet and rubbery struck out of the darkness, knocking Lod on the side of the head. Suppressed rage coiled within Gog’s words: “You will refrain from calling upon that one.”

  Lod stared into the darkness. Dimly, he saw luminous cave-slugs overhead. It surprised him how high they were. Then he saw the outline of Gog’s grotesque bulk. He tested his chains, and he wondered that if he called to Elohim, if he might be able to snap these chains as once he’d snapped them in the rowing hold. Those had never been this thick, however.

  “You think you have won,” said Lod. “But you are wrong. Despite your incredibly long life, you will die. Then, your soul will roast in Sheol for eternity.”

  “I will not die. I shall win through to Eden and the Tree of Life, and there, pluck the precious fruit.”

  “Now it is you whose worldview gives him false hope,” said Lod. “Two thousand years or five thousand, you are in the end doomed.”

  “Doomed, you fool? Doomed, when I shall conquer all? Doomed, when my minions will scour the world for weapons, and find ways to defeat Eden’s guardian Cherub? No, I am far from doomed.”

  “You barely beat my fleet, O Gog. Now you bo
ast about conquering the world?”

  “I make no boasts. Nor do I care to banter with you. Quickly, tell me about this morning’s healing.”

  Lod shook his head.

  “Who was he, Seraph? Who was the man you healed? Tell me, and save yourself pain.”

  “Use your ocular sight, O Gog, and find him yourself.”

  “Did you give him your powers? Answer me!”

  “Answer yourself.”

  “Fool! I will find him, and I will throw him into a colony of lepers. He will die, with his limbs dripping from him, a diseased and sick wretch. You think to heal men in Shamgar, to show the power of your Master. But I am the Master. Aye, rumors may grow. But I will find your gnat no matter where he flees, and I will bring him back to Shamgar. I now know of him, Seraph. I will hunt him. My slaves will hunt him. Your efforts will have been in vain. Think of that as you waste away in your hole of stone. Or, tell me who he is, and I will strike the chains from your limbs. I will allow you a noble death, in combat with the Defender who tried to break your will, and trick you, as you’ve surmised.”

  “The One above guards the healed man from your spells, O Gog. He will also guard the healed man from your minions.”

  “As your god has guarded you?” Gog sneered, the single eye visible in the darkness. “Bah! I waste my time with you. Know this, Seraph: your plan has failed. The one you healed will die in sickness more horrible than he had. I, Gog, rule Shamgar. No one heals my enemies without my leave, least of all your master. He cannot suborn my rule though tricks.”

  “Not by tricks, O Gog, but through the sword will you fall.”

  “Empty boasts, which I have grown weary of. You will return to your tomb, Worm, there to ponder your certain fate.”

  Chapter Eight

  Tamar

  “But oh what horrid rats they are.”

  -- Lamentations of Rat Bait

  Terse orders issued from the Temple. Out of the Stone Fortress raced galleys. Athwart their decks were Nebo trackers: swamp tribesmen, stunted, stone-age warriors. Dark-haired and loincloth wearing, they muttered to one another at their strange orders. Find an escaped slave—his appearance and clothing unknown—and bring him back to Gog. Find him or perish.

  The chieftain of one group fingered his panther-claw necklace. His shaman whispered that it would be unwise to fail. They must find the man, or they must slip into the swamps, never to return to Shamgar. Unfortunately, the chieftain’s favorite daughter remained in the city as hostage. He thus brooded moodily, and finally hissed for the shaman to still his speech and look to his talismans.

  ***

  In another portion of the city, in a dingy tavern thronged with cutpurses, a drunken thief retold his tale. He spoke about a leper who had healed before his eyes and slain Scab.

  “Healed?” a bald woman sneered. In her left ear, she wore a skull pin. The skull’s eye-sockets glittered with quartz.

  “That’s right!” said the thief. “That’s what I said. Moved like a snake, he did. Snatched our weapons, jumped up and started killing us one, two, three.” He snapped his thin fingers.

  “How could he heal himself?” asked the woman.

  Turtle-fashion the thief pulled in his head. “I’ve heard that Elohim did it.”

  Around him, the laughter died away.

  “You’re a fool to talk so,” said the bald woman.

  “I know, I know.” The thief grabbed his wine bowl and slurped the remains. “It’s the truth, so help me.”

  “Gog seal your lips, you fool, or you’ll be rat meat before the morning.”

  The young ruffian groaned, wishing he had never gone into the Maze with Scab. He shot up his arm, shouting at a serving wench for another round.

  ***

  A slender tower overlooked the cobblestone plaza. A loud horn blared from its height. Seagulls lofted from the spiked roof and swirled around it. A red-robed priest appeared on the balcony. He lifted his loud voice in a chant to Gog.

  Below, in the Merchant Wharf, people paused, peering at the tower. For that moment, the buzz of talk, of trade and arguments muted enough so that a boy’s shrill shout could be heard. Then the crowds resumed their roar of trade and shady deals.

  Vidar and Naaman sat at a nearby booth, eating pickles out of a jar. The huge half-Nephilim speared them with a prong. His fingers were too thick to fit into the jar. He crunched each pickle like a walnut, popping it whole into his wide mouth. After the seventh one, he wiped his lips and glowered at the smaller man beside him. “Well, what do you think?”

  Naaman rubbed the burn mark on his cheek. “We need to understand him. What are his customs, his age and training? From what land does he come? If we know the prey, we know his habits. Then, we can lay the proper trap.”

  “You’ve found no clues?”

  “I’ve found one,” said Naaman.

  The huge half-Nephilim jumped to his feet. “What is it?”

  Naaman chewed his last bite, swiveled around on his stool and wiped his hands on his leathers.

  “I’m warning you, Naaman.”

  “Patience, Enforcer.”

  Vidar wrapped his sword-hand around the hilt of his battleblade. “That’s the second time today someone’s told me that. The next time, heads will roll.”

  “I crave your pardon, Enforcer.”

  Vidar grabbed Naaman and propelled him stumbling from the booth and near a crate, where a caged panther paced, lashing its tail. “Out with it, man.”

  Naaman adjusted his tunic, and pointed at an attendant pushing through the crowds. “I believe we may have our answer.”

  “The answer to what?” asked Vidar.

  “I’ve discovered that our leper kept to a routine. An old wretch remembered the man with withered legs, the man who dragged himself from the alleys each morning. Apparently, our leper received a pan of water each noon from a rat-hunter called Tamar. They spoke together, I was told.”

  “Yes?”

  Just then, the breathless young attendant ran up to them, sweat glistening upon his face. “I found her.”

  “Her?” said Vidar.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” asked Naaman. “Tamar the rat-hunter is a woman.”

  ***

  Disgustingly huge rats thrived in Shamgar’s canals. In the sluggish swamp-water that eddied through the channels grew reeds and lilies. Garbage was daily dumped into the waters, the garbage of bodily wastes, the bones of altar goats, swine, cattle and human corpses. It made the water a scummy, dirty mixture. Huge catfish prowled the bottom, while gigantic rats, sometimes weighing one hundred pounds or more, lived in feral packs above. They feasted on the garbage. On the darkest nights, the boldest scrambled onto the deserted streets and attacked lepers or gnawed on drunks. For all their nastiness, however, the scavengers provided a useful service. They were a living, breathing disposal system. Yet their fecundity proved alarming. So Gog taxed all, and used the monies for bounties paid to rat-hunters.

  The slender boats slid through the canals in an eternal war, the wiry hunters armed with razor-pronged tridents. In order to lure the rats into throwing range, the hunters tossed hunks of sheep or goat into the water, or a young lamb bleating in fear. Far more common, however, were young slaves—rat bait. A collar circled their necks. Ropes were attached to the collars, and those ropes tied to the boat. The usual procedure was for the rat bait to jump into the canal and thrash as if wounded, or to float face first in a simulation of death. At a hiss from the rat hunter, the bait struggled for the boat as he feigned injury. Usually, the giant rats followed, and then the rat hunter would spear his quota. If fast enough, the rat bait scrambled whole into the boat. If not, he died horribly among squealing, quarreling monsters, often drowning before they ripped out his throat. The life of rat bait was a precarious existence. The rat’s bite was infectious, their claws impacted with rotted flesh and thus poisonous. The average span of rat bait was two weeks. Most died the first day. One boy, who had been enslaved off the coast of Mago, and w
hose parents had been pearl divers, had survived for two and half years.

  Tamar, the female rat hunter, was smooth-limbed and wore squirrel-fur garments. Her red hair was cut shaggy and short. Freckles dotted her face. A leather cap was pulled down almost to her eyes. A choker protected her neck. She wore gloves and wound leather wraps around her forearms. Presently, she balanced in her boat, a trident cocked in her right hand, as she waited in the shadows under the Goat Bridge.

  Unlike others, Tamar used no bait. She never had. Maybe it was due to her upbringing. Her mother had died when she was five. Her drunken father, once a reaver for Hakk-Kun, had kicked her onto the streets to beg. She did that, until one night a harlot struck her father with a club he had been using on her. Tamar had figured she had two options. Join the harlot in her trade or become a tavern wrench. Instead, she went to Hakk-Kun, and she’d told him she was his responsibility.

  “You want to be my woman?” had asked the pirate lord.

  “No. I want a rat boat so I can earn my keep.”

  The idea had amused the pirate. He had bought the boat and given her three tridents. She had struggled to survive, only spearing two would-be rapists before word got around that she was better left alone. She also dropped the name ‘Hakk-Kun’ from time to time. The other rat hunters ignored her, while the aura of the pirate lord had so far proved sufficient toward letting her keep her location under the Goat Bridge, a choice spot for rat hunting.

  She was there, down in the bridge’s shadows. From the walkway, an attendant whistled. He had to do so twice, before she glanced up.

  When Tamar saw the Enforcer beside the attendant, her eyebrows rose. She chewed her lip, picked up the long oar, the one slotted in the stern, and swept it back and forth. She moved the slender boat with skill. It practically pivoted. Then the boat shot toward the paving. At the bow of her boat was a marble figurine of a mermaid, with a net in hand. Many rat hunters placed good luck charms on their boats, or small idols.