Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4)

by Vaughn Heppner

The pirate backed away from the gems.

  “Gog tempts the ambitious with secret knowledge,” rumbled Lod. “It’s a poor bargain, for such knowledge leads to bondage. Tell me. What does Elohim say about skull-bearers, about those who practice necromancy?”

  Keros shook his head.

  “Thou shall not suffer a necromancer to live.”

  “You didn’t,” said Scorpion.

  Lod regarded the pirates. A hard smile twitched across his weathered face. “Elohim has been kind. He has seen our need. Do not touch any gem or gold piece. But pick up any knife, sword or spear. Grab what shields there are, and boots if you want them. Plunder the slain enemies of Elohim.”

  ***

  The beast’s snout twitched. It smelled the salty tang of the delta. Unerringly, it shuffled toward the odor. Green pines, fresh air, berries and nuts, mushrooms, thousands of insects and honey. It yearned for those things, even though it only dimly remembered them. O, to wander free again. It wasn’t an intelligent thought, but a bestial yearning, an animal longing throbbing like a heartbeat. Its claws clinked on stone steps. Thousands of pounds of monster sped up and up. The beast saw a wooden door, and rushed it, crashing against the barrier. It splintered. Wood chips flew. The beast burst upon a plaza, the one to the side of the Temple. Stars blazed. It was such white light to one entombed for time on end. The city torches and lanterns shone all about him. The beast drank the fresh air. It wasn’t tainted with blood and cruelty. The beast arose onto its hind legs, rising sixteen feet, a giant, a monster, a creature not truly meant for Earth.

  Then the beast twisted in the dungeons by beastmasters noticed the horrified, silent mob staring at it in dread.

  Priests summoned by Gog had marshaled. In serried ranks, they received last minute instructions. They bore shields and swords, wore armor and listened to the hump-shouldered Defenders who commanded them.

  Defenders, Nephilim, children of Gog, these two held axes and wore bear-mask helmets. Not as large as giants, they were squat, with grotesque shoulders. Their strength and evil was legendary. War-captains, champions of the field, these two had often led Gog’s hosts. Each had lived well beyond the span of men and sired many Enforcers. Each called Gog father and obeyed his will. The one nearest the beast had been soundly asleep less than fifteen minutes ago. His brother bore the drugged effects of the rolled kanda leaf. It was the only release from the pressures of one who served Gog.

  The champions, in their bear-mask helms, glanced at one another.

  The beast roared and waded, manlike, on its hind legs. It towered over the priests and over the two Defenders. A huge paw swung. A shield rose to intercept. The shield splintered, and the beast fell upon that Defender. It bore the child of Gog to the ground. With its bestial strength, the monster ignored the champion’s struggles. The foaming jaws found the throat, and tore it out.

  The second Defender bellowed. His axe flashed, and cut bestial flesh.

  The beast’s motion became too fast to follow. A bawl of pain warned everyone. The priests heeded it as the mob of them shuffled back. The beast bawled, and whirled on the second Defender. It leaped like a cat. This Defender had warred in countless battles, but he had never faced a foe like this, and never when half-drugged by the rolled kanda leaf. Cave bear fury made a mockery of Nephilim prowess. In seconds, the other child of Gog lay dead on the plaza.

  Pandemonium erupted.

  A few priests, the bravest and boldest, charged the beast, shouting: “Gog! Gog!” Others froze in terror. Most dropped their swords and spears and scrambled over each other, like frenzied ants. They clawed, screamed and sobbed for mercy.

  The beast went wild as bloodlust took over. This was what it had been trained for. This was why it had been teased over the years, and why it had been driven to fury by a hundred tortures. Wicked delight filled the beast.

  Rend!

  Kill!

  Destroy!

  Blades slashed its furry skin. A spear lodged in its chest. More than one fang chipped or broke on armor. It didn’t matter. The beast was berserk.

  ***

  “Do you hear that?” asked Naaman.

  Vidar cocked his head. “It’s a bear. Ha. And those are the screams of the dying. Follow me, lads.”

  The oared canal-barge scraped against stone. Vidar jumped off. Naaman and twenty attendants followed. The half-Nephilim mercenary from Giant Land raced through the lower Temple plaza with its bronze braziers. He charged up the broad Temple steps. Terrified priests ran shrieking down those steps. Their horror-filled eyes seemed blind to the half-Nephilim. Vidar tried to stop two. They nimbly dodged past, giving leg to their fright. He snarled as he jangled in his chainmail. He knew how hard it was to check a panicked mob. He drew his battleblade and took the broad steps three at a time. Behind him, the attendants toiled to keep up. They drew short swords. They were excellent weapons for police work, but against beasts….

  Vidar howled joyfully.

  Naaman glanced at his men.

  “Who better to lead us than the giant?” puffed an attendant.

  “A half-giant,” corrected Naaman.

  “True. But he’s been trained in their odd codes of valor.”

  Naaman licked his lips. The last fleeing priest raced for safer parts.

  Vidar shouted. He waved them forward. He did it with that mighty blade of his, a sword five feet long, double-edged, metal second in quality only to Bolverk-forged steel. He hefted an auroch-hide shield. The shield was seven layers thick, made for war in Giant Land. The half-Nephilim with the horsetail dangling down his back, the plain iron helmet and strange yellow eyes shouted that here was their chance to prove themselves to Gog.

  They took the steps and hurried after Vidar as he raced for the Temple side.

  “Slow down,” shouted Naaman. “We should hit them as one.”

  “For Father Jotnar!” shouted Vidar. The blood pounded in his ears. A red mist seemed to fall over his vision. His gift flowed through him, giving him added strength. He bellowed and turned the corner. A gory scene shocked him. A beast, a blood-drenched bruin, waded through a terrified mob. Only a few men still faced it. Countless dead littered the plaza. Vidar’s yellow eyes shone. Here was a worthy foe. O, he saw the dead Defenders. Better and better. Let him slay this monster and his true worth would finally, and undeniably, be acclaimed. Fools! They battled the monster in the wrong manner.

  “Circle it!” Vidar roared, rushing into the fray.

  He saw that his attendants didn’t rush to help. He didn’t blame them. How could he? They were mere men, giliks. Gog was wrong to pit men against such creatures as these. That’s why there were champions like him in the world.

  “Monster!” he roared. “Heed me, your blood bane!”

  Perhaps there was something extra in Vidar’s call. The beast swiveled his head. With a grunt, he rose onto his hind feet. A bawl of thunderous volume caused the priests nearest him to fall back.

  Vidar strode closer. His stomach churned. A slash of a smile was frozen on his too wide of a face. He yearned to live, to taste life for many more centuries. Yet, if he ran away, who would sing his songs, and where would his glory go? No, valor mattered above all. And glory! Glory above all, mighty deeds! Such could he gain here, tonight, against this creature that had slain two of Gog’s best.

  “I am Vidar!”

  The beast roared back, and it waded forward.

  The remaining priests fell away, making room for Vidar. The beast dwarfed him. His smile twitched. Was he being a fool?

  “No!” Vidar howled. He shook his battleblade. “I am Vidar, son of Ymir, son of Father Jotnar, son of Anak the Accursed! I will kill you, Beast!”

  The monster of Gog roared, its eyes burning with blood hate. A hundred cuts matted its fur and mixed with that of its victims. It dropped onto its front paws and charged, a furry mass of death-dealing terror.

  Vidar set himself, with his shield up and battleblade held high.

  Hate and triumph lit the beast�
�s wicked eyes. Nothing could stand against it this night. It roared and snapped its jaws.

  Vidar judged the moment to a nicety. He stepped to the right in a fluid motion. The beast was just as fast, but its momentum kept it going. It twisted its head, following Vidar. It snapped. Teeth slid across auroch-hide. Then the beast brushed against Vidar. It was a glancing blow, and it almost knocked down the half-Nephilim. Almost—the battleblade chopped as Vidar staggered. The battleblade sliced fur, flesh and crunched into shoulder-bone. The beast rolled onto the ruined shoulder. It tumbled. The beast’s rump hit the upraised shield. The blow flung Vidar to the ground. The half-Nephilim’s head snapped back, fortunately, the helmet proved its worth. With a ringing head, Vidar jumped up. He swayed. His eyesight blurred. He concentrated on the monster rearing before him. Its right shoulder hung limp, ruined. Blood gushed.

  Together, they roared, spraying spit and venom for each other. The beast waded manlike, swinging its good paw. Vidar, more nimble on his feet, danced around the beast and called on all his precision and strength for the blow of his life.

  Naaman, the attendants, the few lingering priests and the dead with their staring eyes, witnessed the feat. One moment the beast bawled. The battleblade flashed. With its snarl forever frozen in place, the bestial head rolled against a slain Defender. Then, as if drawn to it, and like a redwood tree, tall and majestic, the cave-bear body twitched, leaned and crashed onto the ground.

  Vidar strode to the torso. He put a foot on it. He threw back his head and shouted, shaking his gory battleblade. A moment later, he glared at the living. “Dogs and knaves, do you dare to follow me?”

  A shout, ragged though it was, rose up. And they followed Vidar, son of Ymir One-Eye, through the shattered door and into the dungeon.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Gog’s Lair

  In the womb of the Earth, they did battle.

  -- From: Lod’s Saga

  With Lod and Keros in the lead, the pirates crept through the vault of Gog. Many of the men wore stolen plunder and hefted curved swords. A few gripped spears and grinned out of open-faced helmets. A handful went barefoot, Lod among them. Others wore boots or hastily knotted sandals. Keros preferred his own weapon—the Bolverk-forged blade—and like most warriors of Shur, he fought best when least encumbered. The quick strike and sudden retreat, shifting, weaving, dodging was how Shurites warred. Bessus and others held torches, the crackling mingling with the clatter of shields and boots scuffling stone. They crept toward the wooden door at the far end of the vault, the door that led to Gog’s Lair. The pirates chewed on their lips. The advance slowed.

  “What’s that smell?” asked a pirate.

  “Ignore it,” said Lod.

  “It’s awful.”

  “Sickening,” said another.

  “But not as bad as the Chamber of Beasts,” said Keros.

  Pirates grunted agreement.

  Lod raised his spear, the barefoot Seraph with a rag twisted around his waist. Here, underground, he seemed like some deformed earth elemental, his grotesque muscles smeared with blood, dirt and slime. His shaggy beard gave him an elder air. The sun-baked madness etched upon his face left no doubt he meant to deal death.

  Keros nodded. The spear seemed like Lod’s natural weapon. Only a rock held in those claw-like hands could have been more appropriate. What was a spear? It was a simple length of wood and a crude hunk of sharp iron. It fit the prophet of Elohim.

  “This is it, lads,” said Lod. “We pass this door to kill Gog. Fix it in your minds how you lay alone in the Catacombs. Gog laughed as you lay dying. He laughs still. But, once you enter his lair, he will laugh no more, no, not ever again.”

  Men muttered and clutched their weapons. A few studied the door. Some looked sick… scared.

  Keros thought about Volfson, how he had slain the chieftain and become an oath-breaker. He thought about being captured by Elonites, and being sold to pirates, like the men around him. A ram crashing into the pirate galley had crushed his legs. He had been thrown onto the docks of Shamgar, and there, had become leprous. The curse of the oath-breaker had found him at last… until Lod had staggered down the Goat Bridge and healed him in Elohim’s name. A strange emotion stirred in Keros’s breast. He had cursed himself. He had brought his ill fortune upon his own head. Then Elohim had given him a second chance. Keros hefted the Bolverk-forged dagger, a priceless knife, a blade that kings and princes might ransom half their lands to own. His eyes tightened. Elohim had healed him to lead this band, so that he could slay Gog.

  As the pirates hesitated, as fear swam in their eyes, Keros marched for the entrance. His stomach knotted, but he twisted the latch and eased open the door. A cold, crypt-like feeling blew over him. He peered into the darkness, heard nothing and saw less. Did Gog wait against the wall like a hound by a mouse hole? Keros licked his lips, and darted within. No sword chopped. No arrow zipped. He bounded over spongy ground. His shoulders twitched. Someone watched. He glanced up. He couldn’t make out cave slugs as he had before. The air felt inky, most sliceable.

  Torchlight made everything worse as the pirates filed in. Gnawed bones lay scattered about. There were chicken-like bones, man-sized bones and bones as from a great sloth. The floor shone, as if oiled and had a yellow hue. Above, at the edge of the torchlight, hung gelatin-like globs: cave slugs, poisonous creatures of legend.

  “Form a shield wall,” said Lod. Here, his normally gruff voice seemed muted and weak.

  Nevertheless, the pirates obeyed. The few spears were aimed outward and the torches held high. In a clump, like musk oxen, they examined the cave.

  “Our torchlight should shine farther than it does,” whispered Keros.

  “Agreed,” said Scorpion.

  Pirate heads swiveled as they peered about in dread. Men bumped into each other as they advanced. The barefoot complained about the floor. Some kicked bones. Scorpion marshaled their ranks. “Step lively, lad. Keep up. Tab, hold your shield higher. Gog isn’t going to castrate you. Samson, don’t hide behind your neighbor’s shield.”

  The wild-eyed Seraph shouted, “Gog! Give me another lesson, O spawn of darkness! Or do you at last show wisdom, and fear your slayers?”

  The pirates halted, trembling, staring and holding their breath.

  “He’s here,” whispered Scorpion.

  “Aye,” whispered a pirate.

  “Gog!” roared Lod. “Face me!”

  “Maybe he’s hiding.”

  “Let’s flee.”

  “Those things up there are moving,” said a pirate.

  Keros checked. Like cautious spiders, the blob-like slugs inched along the ceiling. That didn’t seem good.

  “What was that?” whispered a pirate. He glanced about wildly. “It sounded like a footfall.”

  “Gog!” roared Lod, stepping out of the shield wall. He shook his spear. “Your doom is upon you!”

  “FOOL,” came an impossibly heavy voice.

  A vast shadow moved: one right in front of them. Something dark flashed out of it, and Lod, for all his bulk, twisted from a whistling, spiked maul. A pirate screamed. The scream was shrill, devoid of manhood. A spiked mace hit with a wet-smacking sound. A pirate in the shield wall EXPLODED in a spray of bone, flesh and blood. Men howled, throwing themselves from the maul. Blood rained in droplets.

  “Gog is here!” screamed a pirate.

  Keros saw a red-rimmed eye peering out of the oily-shadow. The orb hovered high above them. It was dreadful, sinister and so evilly knowing. Armor clanked from within the shadow. It was darkness worn like a cloak. Their torches had no power against it.

  Gog, a First Born, roared his battle cry. The sound beat at their eardrums and pounded upon their bodies. Pirates froze in dread.

  The spiked maul, heavier than any ship anchor, flashed out of the darkness. It crushed a man, spraying gore and bone as it shoved the head into the shoulders. No armor or shield could protect against that. The giant shadow drifted among them as Gog swept the m
aul again. Men were crushed. Some screamed, and those who could, shrank from the whistling weapon. It left bits of flesh and bone in its wake. A few pirates heaved spears that disappeared into the shadow. By the sound of screeching metal, they did no damage. The maul swung again. It was the scythe of death. A pirate lifted and rocketed backward fifty feet, smashing wetly against the wall. He slid down as a broken smear.

  Peals of laughter rolled out of the darkness. “FOOLS!”

  “To me!” roared Lod.

  Cave slugs dropped. Cow-sized masses of gelatin, with pulsating corpuscles and snail-like antennae, plopped upon men or onto the floor. The slugs left mucus trails that clung to boots or feet and solved the mystery of the oily floor. Men howled in agony as the slugs flowed upon them. Others turned their swords and knives upon the creatures, hewing. It was like cutting rubber, although sometimes, the gelatin softened and a blade slashed in. Then the skin hardened, and no matter how hard the pirate tugged and screamed, he couldn’t free his weapon. At that point, the cave slug oozed upon him. More than one pirate dropped his weapon and fled.

  The mace, the spiked maul, continued shredding and smashing.

  Most of the pirates fled to the back of the cave, away from the door. They tripped over bones and sobbed in terror.

  “Stand and fight!” roared Lod. “Reform the shield wall. We must rush him together.”

  A blindly fleeing pirate staggered the Seraph. A slug plopped onto the spot where Lod had been. The pirate screamed. The strange creature glommed the man within its jelly-like mass.

  With the same horror twisting his features as when the hog had once nibbled his hand, Bessus thrust his torch upon the slug. The rubbery mass writhed like ripples on a pond. Then, it burst into orange flames, consuming both slug and the pirate trapped half within it.

  “We were fools to think we could slay Gog,” cried Scorpion.

  Lod’s eyes blazed as he faced the shadow. In the pandemonium, a few pirates had rallied to him.

  “Elohim!” shouted Keros. He charged into the shadow.

  “No!” screamed Tamar. “Keros, don’t!”