“Swords, axes and knives, such as you just used, lay in abundance. Potions, oh, there were many. Then I saw the glass flask now in my jacket. It rested on cloth-of-gold, with script on a roll of parchment telling me its name.”
“What name?”
“Powder from the black lotus,” said Bessus, “whose blossoms wave in far-off Mu. There, it is said, the Gibborim cultivate such flowers.”
“What does the powder do?”
Bessus smiled. “You shall see… if and when we need it. For now, we must still purchase stenches.”
Keros glanced at the sun. It floated in the sky, on its wayward descent. Seagulls flew in from the sea. They had little time left. “We must part company for awhile, Bessus.”
The beastmaster frowned. “I have no coins of my own.”
Keros withdrew the last of Yeb’s silver shekels, and handed the depleted sack to Bessus.
“You trust me?” Bessus asked, in wonder.
“You just showed me this sinister powder of yours. Now, you must buy the stenches, while I seek out a friend.”
“The rat hunter?” asked Bessus.
Keros nodded.
“You’re certain she will help us?” asked Bessus.
“As certain as I am that you will.”
Bessus looked away, frowning. Then he worked off a glove and they shook hands.
Chapter Eleven
Spoor
“Deliver my life from the sword, my precious life from the power of the dogs.”
-- A prayer of Shurite Raiders
The clang of hammers thundered in Vidar’s skull. For hours, he had hidden in a smithy, spying on the rat hunter. As he peered through a crack, he crushed charcoal in his fist. She sat again, tossing pebbles under the bridge.
“That’s the last warning,” growled Vidar.
“Wait,” said Naaman. “Notice those two.”
Vidar squinted through the crack. Two Jogli strode toward the bridge. Scarlet bands held their headgear. Ah, Naaman had spoken about possible disguises. The nomads halted at a piling and adjusted their veils. One hailed Tamar.
Vidar charged through the gloom. His brushing hip overturned an anvil. Coals sprayed. Then, the half-giant exploded out of the smithy. With the bulk of a bear, but with the grace of a leopard, he bounded across the plaza, clawing out his battleblade.
Naaman puffed after, signaling hidden men.
People screamed, scrambling out of Vidar’s path. The nomads glanced at the charging Enforcer. They looked about, perhaps wondering whom he charged. Then, it must have occurred to them that he charged them. One desert warrior threw up his hands, crying, “Peace, peace!” The other swept out his scimitar, a glittering blade.
“FATHER JOTNAR!” roared Vidar. He hewed with his giant blade. The scimitar shattered. With a wrench, Vidar freed his sword from that nomad’s face. Blood dripped from the blade. He whirled, smashing his fist into the second nomad. That man crumpled, choking on broken teeth.
Naaman and his men arrived, wide-eyed and pale.
“There,” said Vidar, “it’s finished.”
Naaman bent over the gasping Jogli and removed the veil, revealing an old man with a bloody beard and smashed nose.
Vidar clapped Naaman on the shoulder. The force of it staggered the smaller man. “You can depend on me to mention your name to Gog. Your skills aided in this capture.”
Naaman pursed his lips. He glanced at his bewildered men. “May I speak with you, Enforcer?”
“Speak, speak,” said Vidar. He was expansive. He smiled as he held onto the mighty battleblade.
“Could we talk on the bridge,” said Naaman.
Vidar noticed the growing crowd. People cautiously crept nearer. All kept a respectful distance from the blade, and no one would meet his gaze. He clumped up the bridge, and began to wipe his gory sword clean. “Well?”
“It isn’t him,” said Naaman.
“Bah.”
“The old Jogli is Ben-Hadad, of Midian Clan, a caravan master. I suspect you slew his son.”
Vidar slammed the giant blade into its scabbard. His eyes were hard. His wide mouth tightened. “It doesn’t matter. This Keros will never escape Shamgar, certainly not into the swamps. He’s as good as dead. So it might as well be him.”
Naaman nodded cautiously. “What about the caravan master?”
Vidar curled the bloody rag and dropped it into the canal. “Bury the bodies in the swamp. Get rid of them.”
“The visiting Jogli might take exception to that. Ben-Hadad is their chief.”
“All the more reason to rid ourselves of him,” said Vidar. “Or do you want them complaining to Gog?”
“Sown lips are silent?” Naaman asked.
Vidar stepped near the small man. Menace oozed from him. “I’m a warrior, with a warrior’s zeal. When something pesters me, I draw my sword and destroy it.”
“I believed I just witnessed that.”
Vidar glowered down at Naaman. “Would you like a second demonstration?”
Naaman snapped his fingers. “Ben-Hadad dies. My men hunt down the other Jogli, and sink their corpses into the swamp. Unfortunately, a new Jogli envoy might arrive and seek answers.”
Vidar sneered. “I’ll kill him, too.”
“A possibility,” agreed Naaman. He minutely shook his head.
An attendant who had stepped onto the bridge turned about and signaled a black-robed man sitting in a dogcart. The dog was huge and sniffed at the downed Jogli. The black-robed man scowled and spit on the paving. He continued waiting.
Naaman told Vidar, “I believe you’ve overlooked one particular.”
Those strange yellow eyes seemed to smolder.
“Gog wished Keros captured alive.”
The feral light in Vidar’s eyes dimmed. “…True,” the half-giant agreed.
“If I may point out another problem…”
“Yes, yes,” said Vidar.
“You were raised in Giant Land, not Shamgar. Gog… because of his ocular powers, Gog eventually learns the truth about everything. It is ill advised to lie to him. We made a mistake. Let’s not compound it.”
“We made a mistake?” asked Vidar.
“I would never suggest otherwise,” said Naaman. He took out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “Perhaps it would be wisest if we dispersed the crowd and reset the trap.”
Vidar peered at the mass of humanity. They crowded against each other, jostled one another, afraid to approach the dead Jogli too closely, yet drawn to death. None looked up at him. But he felt their scrutiny, their covert glances. They were cattle, a herd, more cunning than the bovine of Giant Land certainly, clever at times, robed in many colors, wearing turbans, tall hats, cloth hair-pieces and more Jogli with their veils. Some of these cattle thought themselves deadly—those were the bulls of the herd. But even the bulls hid within the shifting throng. None dared leave the sanctuary of their compressed anonymity to face him man-to-man.
Vidar turned to Naaman. “What if Keros is in the crowd?”
“He cannot hide long,” said Naaman. “Enforcers comb the rest of the city. An army of attendants question and bribe. We will find his spoor, or in desperation, he will—“
“Tell me later,” growled Vidar.
Tamar approached them with her head lowered and subservient. Vidar noticed she went barefoot. Her feet were slender, pretty and out of place against the dirty cobblestones of the bridge.
“Yes?” Naaman asked her.
“You killed him,” she said. “So if you’ll pay me—”
“No,” said Naaman, “you may not leave.”
The rat hunter licked her lips. “It’s been a long day. I’d like to start home before dusk.”
“What’s wrong with your hearing?” asked Vidar. “You stay.”
“Did you kill the wrong man?” she asked.
Naaman dragged her to the canal stairs, stone steps embedded in the concrete bank. Her boat thumped against the bottom step. The string net in
the mermaid idol’s hands shivered each time.
“Rat hunters should be careful what they say,” said Naaman.
Attendants now helped the black-robed man place the two bodies in the dogcart.
“Is that what you’re going to do to Keros?” asked Tamar.
The creak of leather told of Vidar’s approach. “Go back to your boat,” he said. “Hold up a trident. Wait for Keros to approach you.”
“I understand, Enforcer, and I will obey. I’m also wondering when you’re going to let me go home. I hope it’s before dusk.”
“Gog’s priorities supersede your own,” Naaman said.
Tamar hesitated. Her shoulders slumped, and she climbed down the stairs.
An attendant, meanwhile, thrust through the crowd and soon bowed to Vidar. “We’ve found a man tied to his bed, Enforcer. He said a thief climbed through the fourth-story window. He said this thief had strange marks, pinkish, as if he had just been healed.”
“This captive’s name?” snapped Naaman.
“Yeb,” said the attendant.
***
A flake of green paint peeled off her leaky boat and floated in the canal. Tamar knelt on a thwart and bailed, raining the bilge water onto the flake. Her boat needed re-caulking and repainting, and that took coins. But she didn’t want blood money gained through the death of a friend. Oh, why did she have such a soft heart?
Keros had been so pitiful before, and he had mumbled so longingly about the Hills of Paran, its blue skies, steep mountains and the winds kissing his face. He’d also muttered about Elohim, a god of justice. She couldn’t fathom that. Life was vicious, nasty and short. Man knifed man, rat devoured rat, and swamp sharks ate what was left.
Her fingers tightened around the bailing pan. It had many dents. She had let him drink from this very dish. Afterward, he had blessed her in Elohim’s name. Later that day, without fail, she would slay double the rats. But the idea that a cripple’s blessing had power… Keros wasn’t a priest or magician. He had been a warrior, a knife-fighter of Shur. So why had his blessings possessed power?
She stowed the pan, stood and hefted her favorite trident. She was of Shamgar. To save her skin and earn a few coins, she would let that monster beat the Shurite to death. Was that wrong? In this world, the weak appeased the strong.
Tamar swallowed in a dry throat.
She wanted to go home. She didn’t want to see Keros die like that foolish Jogli. Imagine, drawing a scimitar against a brute like the Enforcer. He was half Nephilim. Men couldn’t compete against them. Gog was worse. He was a First Born. If Gog wanted Keros dead, nothing on Earth could save him.
***
“What should I do with him, Enforcer?”
Vidar massaged his blood-speckled knuckles, studying the broken man tied to the chair. The tavern had been emptied for this chore. Several attendants, heavily muscled bullies, huddled at a table, cowed by what they had just witnessed.
“Take this Yeb to the executioner,” said Vidar.
“Stretch him?” asked Naaman.
“Yes. Check his answers. Pain sometimes revives a gilik’s memory.”
Naaman lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve used that word before, Enforcer. May I ask you what it means?”
Vidar grinned. “Gilik is a term from Giant Land for the human, the one who grovels.”
Naaman bowed his head.
“Make the arrangements, Chief Attendant. Then report to me when you discover something of use.
“What of yourself?” Naaman asked.
Vidar’s grin turned nasty. “I shall… speak with the rat hunter before I send her home.”
Chapter Twelve
The Rat Boat
Yea, unto the third generation is given the gift of the bene elohim.
-- Archives of the Accursed War
Starlight glittered off the oily waters. On the paving bank, night watchmen clanked by and lit the next octopus-shaped lantern. From the canal-side taverns, sounded drunken laughter and the melody of flutes.
Tamar huddled miserably in her boat, with a thin blanket thrown over her shoulders. A night wind blew in from the swamp. Eddies of the breeze whispered through the canals. Somewhere nearby, a rat splashed into the water. Tamar fumbled with a flint box, clicking sparks and lighting her lantern, hanging it from a pole. The yellow-slotted light illuminated the under-bridge. A swimming rat squealed, submerging. Others hunched under the Goat Bridge, preening themselves with their slender paws. When the light touched them, they glanced up, their eyes shining, and then they dove into the water.
Tamar shivered with disgust. At night, the rats grew braver, more sinister.
“Girl!” shouted a familiar voice.
She spied the huge Enforcer, his silhouette on shore. Against the lights of the taverns, he hulked like some bear. She swept the stern oar, gliding toward the paved bank. Lantern-light danced on his face. It was too wide. The callused cheeks only added to its strangeness. Worst was the tattoo, the trident mark of evil on his forehead.
Tamar didn’t spy the other one, the gray-haired attendant. Nor did anyone pretend to mend nets as before.
A chill swept through her. Was she alone with the half Nephilim? “Where is everyone?”
“Closer, girl, dock here.”
She hesitated. The half Nephilim had evil yellow eyes, a rapist’s grin. “It looks as if the trap failed,” she said.
“Throw out your line,” said Vidar.
“May I leave now? I’m already late.”
“Did you hear me, girl?”
Waves lapped against her boat, gently rocking it. She kept her balance with ease as her thighs flexed. The soles of her bare feet keep their place on the wet wormwood better than any shoes.
“I truly need to leave,” she said. “The rats become bold in the dark.”
“I’m here, fear not.”
“They’re not as bad when the sun first sets. But the longer I wait, the worse they will become.”
“Throw out your line. You can forget about going home.”
Fear clenched her belly. “I’ve done what you asked.” With a stroke of the oar, she shifted the bow of her boat away from him. “I’m sorry for upsetting you earlier, but I really must go.”
Lantern-light flickered over his anger. He shouted, sprinted and leapt. She screamed. His leap carried him farther than a man could jump. It was like a lion springing in the dark. His boots crashed upon the gunwale. Wormwood cracked. The boat shot out from shore, rocking wildly. His concentration, the set of his jaw, was total. He had incredible grace and rode out the seesawing vessel. She flailed and screamed again. She almost pitched overboard. She could feel greedy rat-eyes watching her from the water. Then, his fingers tightened around her wrist. He slammed her against his chest. His doglike breath was overpowering.
“You didn’t obey me,” he whispered.
Hypnotized by terror, she stared up into his beastly, almost glowing eyes.
“Row,” he said. He shoved her. She crumpled by the stern oar.
“Row where?” she whispered.
“Row,” he said, like a lion crouching in the middle of the boat.
She stood, and swayed the stern oar from side to side. The familiar rhythm calmed her as they left the Goat Bridge behind. Foolishly, she felt safer with him in the boat, at least safer from the rats.
“You will take me to your dwelling,” he rumbled.
She almost jumped overboard. Clearly, he meant to rape her there.
He leered. “If you make this difficult I will kill you afterward.”
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
“I am a warrior. Warriors take because they are strong. Earlier, you thought to pit yourself against me. Now, I will pit myself against you, but in a more comfortable setting.”
She passed men on shore. They stood around a stone trough. Firewood crackled in it as flames danced. Some knelt at the carcass of a goat, cutting bloody slices. Others slid the meat onto metal prongs and placed them over the
fire. The men wore loincloths and panther-skin capes. They were Nebo primitives, surviving in this evil city as they did in the swamps.
She dared look Vidar in the eye. “You are a beast,” she said, amazed at her boldness.
“I have the vitality of one,” he said.
“You are a creature that only plays at being human.”
“Bah. What is man? He is a weak thing that bleats like a sheep. He always follows the strongest.”
She swept the oar, feeling the resistance of the water. With the half-giant riding, her boat was sluggish. The gunwales were much nearer the water. A heavy wave would splash in now.
“Gog is the strongest,” she said.
“In Shamgar,” Vidar said.
Tamar cocked her head. She heard arrogance in his tone, arrogance directed against Gog. “You serve Gog.” She hesitated, and then blurted, “Does that make you his sheep?”
Menace oozed from him. It was a palpable feeling. “I will be rough.”
She laughed. It was a reckless, frightened sound. “So, you bleat like the rest. You bleat, because Gog is stronger than you.”
“Today he is stronger.”
“Forever!” she cried.
“No.”
The moon peeked over the horizon. Silvery rays shone upon the city. A bat or an owl winged silently above her. How she wished she could fly away, never to return.
“What are you saying?” she asked. “You think to best Gog?”
He spoke proudly: “I am Vidar. I am a warrior.”
“You’re only half-Nephilim. Gog is a First Born.”
He cracked his knuckles. It sounded like rat-bones breaking.
“Gog will always rule over you,” she said.
His yellow eyes narrowed as he stirred.
She swept the oar against a growing current. In a hundred feet, the canal joined a main thoroughfare. Here, old pirate-holds lined both banks. The men in those holds had joined the Captain’s Fleet in rebellion. Therefore, the holds were empty, the area dark, the walkways abandoned. She squinted. Not altogether abandoned. A beggar hobbled along the bank. He dragged a pole, which seemed odd.
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