“Their offspring remain on Earth, the First Born and the Nephilim, as I’ve said. And certain fell weapons and ruins from that olden age litter the various lands. One of those ruins has been rebuilt, terrible Shamgar of the swamps.
“Magog once ruled from Shamgar. He trained his hosts, learned grim necromancies, and thousands died screaming in his gargantuan Temple that sat upon the city’s acropolis. There, too, he refined his strange device that let him gaze into mysterious realms. Then, the Shining Ones swarmed Shamgar. They sailed to the mouth of the Hanun Delta. They gathered on the muddy shores, and slogged upriver, floating their siege engines. Magog and his legions defended their swamp den. On the walls and in the canals, swords flashed and spears sang. The enemy legions hurled their flesh into the breach, but were unable to stem the invincible assault. So Magog armed himself for battle and thunders rumbled in his fist. The old lore speaks of balefire. Magog wielded it, and winnowed the ranks of the Shining Ones. It brought fierce retribution. The Shining Ones slaughtered every living thing in Shamgar, and used their powers to blast the stone buildings and burn the rubble with brimstone.
“Afterward, such was the stench of Shamgar that the place reeked of foul death. With their tempers cooled after the battle, the Shining Ones wondered if they were becoming tainted by this earthly war. They departed sooner than they wanted. Maybe the smells drove them. Maybe the Shining Ones wished to leave the grim reminder to their growing bloodlust. They did not prowl the ruins and search for items or artifacts of otherworldly design or origin. Legends hold that the strange device Magog fashioned still lies in Shamgar, in some hidden vault deep under the Earth, maybe buried under the swampy slime.
“Whatever the case may be, Gog seeks to reclaim his father’s title and power. The First Born spins his webs and tightens his grip. Beware Shamgar, and beware the Temple, but most of all, beware the ancient spirits and the ghosts of the horribly slain that surely lurk where thousands died screaming under Magog’s butchering knife. In the ancient days, the god practiced necromancy, leaving it a haunted place, evil and filled with supernatural perils.
***
“Douse the lantern,” whispered Keros.
“We don’t dare,” hissed Tamar.
“We must.”
“You don’t understand,” she said.
They floated off the Temple shore and in the dark. On the farther bank were Gog’s main arsenal and the wharves to his personal fleet. Behind it, a fortress-barracks housed his most loyal retainers. Patrolling the docks and the special berths were squads of spearmen. They protected the battle-galleys called triremes, as compared to the smaller, swifter pirate vessels used to chase down merchantmen. The dock-area curved gently, the canal changing direction from east to south. On the closer bank—the one they headed toward—arose the fifty-foot acropolis, its back area. The Temple was taller and larger than anything else in Shamgar was. It dominated the nightline, a brooding stone mountain.
“Do you hear them?” whispered Tamar.
The three of them hunched low in the rat boat, in the Temple’s night shadows. Lantern-light gleamed from the Temple Court and from the barracks on the far shore. But no light shined where the water lapped against the slender rat boat.
“I hear them,” whispered Bessus.
Squeals punctuated the night. It was bedlam. The noise was of a horde, a seething mass of hisses, squeals and sometimes, the scream of a dog, a cat or other unfortunate beast. Every so often, there were loud plops, splashes, of heavy bodies hitting the water.
“Rats,” said Tamar, “rats fighting.” She pointed at the acropolis. “See over there, the blackest part of the rock?”
Keros squinted at the mountain. Now and again, luminous eyes gleamed in the darkness. Otherwise, the rats were invisible.
“Rats fight there,” Tamar said, “where you wish to land. We must keep our light or they will swarm us.”
“Fear not,” said Keros.
“You’re not listening,” said Tamar. “The Temple sewer is there. You can’t see it now because it’s too dark. They dump goat entrails, swine and sheep.”
“We’ve taken that into consideration,” said Keros.
“We?” she asked.
“I told you, Bessus is a beastmaster.”
Tamar was shocked. “You can’t crawl up the sewer chute into the Temple?”
“I don’t plan to,” said Keros.
“That’s a relief,” she said, “because it can’t be done.”
“How do you know?” Keros asked, curious.
“You just said that you aren’t climbing it.”
“I’m not. I’m simply curious how you know it can’t be done.”
Tamar waved her arm. “Because it can’t!”
“It’s like I thought,” he said. “You have no idea.”
Tamar hated his smugness. It was so irritating. “In the first place,” she said, “you would need a galley to land there.”
“Because of the rats?” he asked.
“Yes!”
“Excellent. Then no one will expect a rat boat to try.”
Tamar wanted to punch him in the nose. “Look,” she said, “maybe half-a-dozen swordsmen during the day—with plenty of light—could keep the rats at bay while we landed. What you’re planning—”
“The spirit of Magog will guide us,” said Bessus.
“What?” Tamar asked in outrage.
“Let’s keep Magog out of this,” said Keros. He told her, “Douse the lantern.”
“How stubborn can you be?” she asked.
Tamar debated narrowing the light, and shining it on the acropolis. Let him see the hundred or more squirming brown bodies. Let him see the rats swimming the water like furry sharks. Let him see them clinging to the rocks, sniffing near the bronze chute. This was rat haven, their hangout and their special territory.
Keros drew back a tarp and hefted a glass-sealed pot. He handed it to Bessus. The beastmaster settled cross-legged at the bow.
Tamar threw up her hands, opened the lantern and pinched the wick. The sounds of squealing, angry rats seemed to magnify in the dark.
“Good,” said Keros. “Ease us there.”
“They’ll swamp us,” Tamar said.
“I think not,” he said. “Not with Bessus’s pot.”
“Is it magic?” she asked.
Keros pressed something wooden into her hand. “Clip this over your nose,” he said. “Bessus.”
Tamar studied the clip, shrugged and pinched it over her nostrils. Then she eased the stern oar and glided them near the terrifying noise of hundreds of milling rats, some of them the monsters of Shamgar. Bodies bumped against each other, bodies splashed into the water and claws scratched against granite. Her heart pounded. She was a fool.
“Slowly,” cautioned Keros.
“How do you know your scheme will work?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
Rat squeals turned in their direction. It was an ominous sound. Tamar could imagine their wedge-shaped heads zeroing in on them, their beady greedy eyes staring at her flesh. Rats splashed into the water, as the sheer cliff of the acropolis towered above them. On it, the Temple of Gog shot straight up. The back of the Temple was legendary in rat-hunting lore. The garbage chute was the favorite spot in all Shamgar for the giant rodents.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Keros warned, “and try not to faint.”
Bessus pried the glass cork free, and an awful, dreadful stink exploded.
Keros made gagging noises, wheezing, “It’s worse than I thought.”
With a long glass spoon, Bessus spread the nefarious substance over the water. He did it several times.
Rats surfaced nearby. Their immediate squeals were one of outrage and Rodentia shock. They fled.
“Keep rowing,” choked Keros.
Bessus vomited and tears streamed from his eyes as he ladled stench. Keros crawled near the beastmaster, patting him on the back and whispering encouragement into his ear. Tamar
reeled at the oar. Her eyes watered horribly. Somehow, she kept the oar going back and forth. Every so often, Bessus spooned more of the dreadful liquid. The rats leaped off the rocks. Others tried to scramble up the cliff, only to fall and splash heavily. Most fled. The squeals of fighting had stopped some time ago.
Then the boat bumped against the cliff. It was a scrape of wood against rock. Tamar felt the jar through her feet.
Bessus corked the pot. Keros crawled near her. “Can you anchor your boat?”
Tamar nodded. It was hard to think. Her vision was blurry. “Now what?” she whispered, almost vomiting because of the taste in her mouth.
Keros slung a coil of rope over his shoulder, a long thin fiber harvested in the deep swamp. Bessus had purchased it earlier. “When I reach the top of the acropolis, I’ll drop the rope. You catch it, and tie it to this.” He pushed a heavier rope into her hands. “Do you understand?”
“That you’re insane?” she asked.
“If the rats return, have Bessus spoon more stenches.”
“I think I’d rather let the rats swamp us.”
“Tamar.” In the darkness, Keros peered into her eyes.
Her heart thudded faster. Would she ever see him again?
“You can leave once Bessus climbs the heavier rope. All I ask is that you give him the lantern.”
“I get to keep the stench, right?” she asked deadpan.
He turned away from her.
“Keros.” She clutched his hands. “Good luck.” She squeezed his fingers.
“Elohim bless you,” he said, just as he had when he had been a cripple drinking her water. He shuffled to Bessus, whispering instructions. Then Keros fumbled toward the cliff.
Chapter Fourteen
The Temple of Gog
“A Shurite is a mountain goat with feet.”
-- An Elonite saying
From a lifetime of goat herding in the crags, Keros was used to scaling cliffs, although not at night. Fortunately, there were granite outcroppings and cracks where he could wedge his feet. With almost simian ease, he climbed, until he threw an arm over the edge and crawled onto the acropolis. He listened for several heartbeats, uncoiled his rope and let it slither. Soon enough, it tugged in his hand. He hauled up the heavier, knotted rope and braced himself. Much too long of a time later, Bessus popped up his sweaty head. After the beastmaster crawled to safety, Tamar appeared.
“Well, well,” said Keros.
“Never mind that,” she whispered. She climbed onto the acropolis with the stinkpot slung over her back.
The three of them slunk to the massive Temple, the wall decorated with a thousand bas-relief images.
“Now what?” whispered Tamar.
“There are three entrances,” said Bessus.
“Four,” said Keros, as he coiled the lighter rope. He gazed up the sheer wall, and began taking off his boots.
“What if guards show up?” Tamar asked.
“Take a running leap and jump,” said Keros. “It’s only fifty feet to the canal.”
“Fear not,” whispered Bessus. “The spirit of Magog watches over us.”
Keros eyed the beastmaster before studying the wall.
“You can’t really be serious,” said Tamar. “No one can climb that.”
“Wish me luck,” said Keros.
She gave him a strange glance. “Luck,” she whispered.
With his bare foot, Keros stepped onto a bas-relief image of a star and hoisted himself upward.
This was nothing like the acropolis rock face. Keros soon learned that this was like nothing he had ever scaled before. The wall was vertical. The handholds were marble, the features of bas-relief men, Nephilim, mammoths, suns, moons, trees and such. Sometimes, he fingered only smooth surfaces. Then, he had to slide right or left and try again. He inched upward, sliding his cheek against marble, not daring to turn his head. Anything that might cause him to sway back would pitch him off the wall and to his death or re-crippling. Sweat stung his eyes. Cramps threatened his hands and biceps.
Slowly, he told himself, be patient. This is why you were healed.
Keros concentrated with terrible intensity. The idea of failure… he had too many reasons not to fail. After fleeing the Mountains of Shur, he had tried to slink through Elon. The Elonites were lowlanders, charioteers, the hereditary enemies of the mountain men. They had captured him, and because of his youth, they had not slain him out of hand, but sold him on the coast as a slave rower. He had rowed chained to a bench, a slave to pirates of Shamgar. The pirates had jeered him, mocked him and made light of his heritage. There had been a sea-fight. A galley of Carthalo had rammed their vessel. His legs had been crushed, although the pirate galley had escaped. The pirates hadn’t thrown him to sharks, but had left him on the docks of Shamgar. As a beggar in Shamgar, men had treated him wretchedly. Once, laughing drunks had held his head underwater in a canal, making bets on how long a cripple could hold his breath. A thief had saved him by picking their pockets. When the drunks discovered the thefts, they had let him up in order the chase the thief. There had been that night a rat had cornered him, a beast with chisel-like teeth. Repeatedly, the hundred-pound rat had laid a claw on his withered foot. He had jabbed a sharpened stick at the rat’s eyes. Finally, it had tired of him and gone elsewhere.
Sweat glistened on Keros’s hands and face. He refused to shiver when the breeze picked up. He tried to dry his fingers on the marble. He swallowed in a sore throat. He desperately wanted to rub his eyes. In his mind, he screamed at himself to concentrate.
Lod the Seraph, the man who had dared heal a worthless cripple in the city of evil, Lod had to be rescued. That was the quest, the goal, and until it was completed, his reason for being.
From up here, he heard the sounds of the city. Armored men marched on the other side of the canal. Shipwrights repaired a trireme with their wooden mallets. Soon, there would be war, as Gog’s hosts marched to extend his perverted realm. The First Born had united Shamgar in its wickedness. Nebo tribesmen had been given iron weapons and trained in mercenary tactics. Rumors spoke of enlisting giants.
Keros repeatedly blinked his stinging eyes. His fingers weakened. He breathed, but not too deeply, lest his expanding chest hurl him off the wall.
Then his various thoughts fled. Life became stiff fingers and aching feet. One more step, then another, the next one, one more, yes, after this one he would rest. But then if he could only reach up again… why not just keep going? Finally, his fingers felt more purchase than before, an entire ledge! He almost looked up and thrust his chin against the wall. Cold sweat beaded his cheeks. Such a move would hurl him off the wall. He inched upward and crawled onto the ledge that was near the roof. He gasped upon the six full feet of ledge. His muscles quivered.
He stirred, and peered down into the darkness of the Temple of Gog. A wild grin split his face. He had done it. Carefully, he shrugged off the rope and let one end slither down the Temple wall. It was time to bring up the others.
Chapter Fifteen
Adoni-Zedek
“These dreamers pollute their own bodies, reject authority and slander celestial beings.”
-- Naram the Prophet
Tamar cringed as her worst fear came true. Priests marched toward the corner where she hid. Their shields rattled against spears and their armored boots struck stone.
Bessus was halfway up and climbing slowly. Keros had said that only one at a time could use the rope. He hadn’t known if there would be anything with which to anchor the rope other than his own weight.
She peered around the corner. The priests muttered angrily. One held a lantern, its flickering light playing off the Temple. How little they seemed compared to the towering cathedral of marble, the colossal structure built upon megalomaniac lines. Her stomach clenched and she began to tremble. Their voices were audible now.
“The fool must have fallen asleep.”
“It’s the pincers for him if that’s true.”
Tama
r leaned back and closed her eyes. Dare she sprint and leap for the water fifty feet below, in the dark, with the rats perhaps having returned? She tried to swallow. The rats would be back by now, wouldn’t they? A fifty-foot leap in the dark…. Tamar licked her lips. Keros had saved her from Vidar. Could he reach the dungeons and free Lod? No, that was madness. He was doomed… but if he could succeed. He had to be given the chance. The priests mustn’t find Bessus crawling up the wall.
Tamar took a deep breath and strode around the corner. The stinkpot was slung over her back, a slender rat-dagger belted at her side. She wore the furs and leather of a rat hunter, was bare-footed and much smaller than the armored men coming toward her were. They had cruel faces, harsh staring eyes and shaven heads. Each wore a red robe and over that, a cuirass of bronze. Each bore a shield, a few had spears, the rest those long, curved swords they loved to wave. Seven priests, their leader with a trident tattoo on his forehead. He, without doubt, belonged to the Order of Gog.
She cried, “I didn’t mean it.” She let her fear ring in her voice.
The priests froze with looks of surprise and fright. The lantern-bearer lifted it higher so it rattled.
“Who goes there?” shouted the trident-tattooed priest.
“It’s just me, a girl.” Tamar hurried closer.
“Halt!” shouted the leader.
She kept coming.
“Halt, I say!” The leader pointed his curved sword at her.
Tamar stopped wide-eyed and mouth agape.
“What are you doing here?” barked the leader. “Are there others?”
“No others,” she said. “He said I had to come alone.”
“Who said?”
“Maybe she means Zepho,” said another priest.
“Silence,” hissed the leader.
“Yes,” said Tamar. “Zepho told me.”
The priest with the trident tattoo edged nearer. Suspicion narrowed his eyes. “You dare lie to Gog’s priests.”
Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) Page 13