Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Soon, she would be free of him, and she would bask in Gog’s acclaim. The god had given her a difficult task, and she had completed it to perfection.

  Nyla swept the oar back and forth, imagining what a hot bath and a full body massage would feel like. After more than two weeks in the swamp, she would pamper herself with hard-earned luxuries.

  After a time, she noticed the approaching barge, studying it. The barge was a low-built, flat-bottomed vessel. The rowers’ shaved heads were visible above the gunwales as their oars creaked in rhythm to a slow-beating drum. At the ornate prow paced a priest in a black robe and cowl. He would be of the Order of Gog. By the mace dangling from his belt, he was Mace Rank, one of the higher levels. With the mace and in holy ritual, he would crush limbs and pulp flesh, his way of inflicting pain. Ah, he turned toward her. He had pale skin, highlighting the red trident tattoo on his forehead.

  The priest cupped his hands, shouting, “Are you Nyla the Knife?”

  Nyla noticed Thag’s eyes as he lay bound in her boat. They widened with fear. She silently cursed the priest. She’d wanted to tempt Thag one more time. Seeing the spires of Shamgar would surely unlock the pirate captain’s last vestiges of stubbornness. Then he would whisper the secret location of his gems. If the priest were a messenger from Gog, he would likely demand Thag, and there her last chance at greater treasure would escape her grasp.

  So Nyla hesitated, and she considered the ramifications of lying. If Gog discovered she’d lied to one of his messengers…. Nyla sighed, and she shouted, “I am she known as ‘the Knife’.”

  The priest turned from her and spoke to persons unseen. The drum’s rhythm changed. The oars thrust into the water and slowed the flat-bottomed vessel.

  Nyla approached it, halting several feet from the prow. Foul water lapped against the waxen wood. The priest stood several feet above her on the deck. He had cruel eyes, sneering lips and was thin like a crane.

  “Gog summons you,” the priest intoned. “He summons you to the Caverns.”

  Despite herself, Nyla shivered. She had never entered the fabled Caverns. Few did. Even fewer returned to tell about the experience.

  “Gog insists on immediate obedience,” the priest said, as he watched her.

  “I’m….” Nyla kept her face expressionless. She stilled her sudden fear. Curse Thag and his endless prattle about doom. She wanted to kick the pirate in the ribs, maybe several times. “I’m ready to enter our god’s presence,” she said.

  “You are to come as you are,” said the priest, his voice hardening. “Those were Gog’s own words.”

  “What should I do with him?” asked Nyla, indicating Thag.

  The priest spoke haughtily. “Do you thwart our god through disobedience? Gog said immediately. Yet here you are arguing with me. Row, Nyla the Knife, row this instant for the Caverns.”

  For the barest instant, attack words tumbled onto Nyla’s tongue. Sheba could make such a leap. It would startle the priest up there. He was a mere man, without any of the blood of the high. Yes, he acted as Gog’s messenger, but he was reckless to instruct her so arrogantly.

  “Hurry!” said the priest. “Gog has summoned you. Your prolonged delay is a sin against divinity.”

  Nyla swallowed her anger and began to row, following the barge into Shamgar.

  -3-

  Later, under the Temple of Gog, the priest threaded through descending corridors, with a torch crackling in his bony fist. The flickering flame cast lurid images onto the walls. Nyla strode behind him, her boots squelching. Behind her stumbled Thag. His new chains clanked and his bloodshot eyes were staring. The priest had given the pirate captain purple lotus. In minutes, Thag’s last objections had stilled as he’d entered a heavily drugged state.

  The air grew cooler as they descended steep steps into darkness. Water dripped from the ceiling. A hideous scream from a side corridor told Nyla that a necromancer practiced his evil arts. She held her breath later as beastly odors wafted from a different cross-corridor. She’d heard rumors about unholy experimentation concerning beasts. A bear, a mighty cave bear by the volume, bawled in terror, its cry echoing in the warren of tunnels.

  They turned a corner, and soon the priest pushed open a creaking door. He motioned her to follow. Here his torchlight flickered off cave walls instead of brick. The odors thickened and a sense of doom, of oppressive weight, made Nyla’s heart thump. She felt…power. The feeling was heavy, dominating and suffocating to her spirit.

  The priest lifted his torch. They seemed to be in a cavernous chamber. He licked his lips as he turned to her. Fear had tightened his narrow features. “Strike the gong,” he whispered. He must have seen her confusion, for he thrust the torch into the darkness, revealing a huge gong hanging from a chain. A bar waited on a nearby stand.

  Nyla approached the bar. The feeling of power…her extra senses stirred, senses bequeathed only to those of the blood. An immense force waited here in darkness. It had to be Gog.

  “Strike the gong,” said the priest, his voice harsh with fear.

  Nyla wrapped her fingers around a short bronze bar. The metal was cool to the touch. She hefted it, and debated swinging around and clouting the priest. He wasn’t arrogant now. At this point, he was like any human in the presence of those of the blood.

  Nyla glanced at Thag, at his slack, drugged features and at his shaggy head of hair. He was like a dumb brute, a beast.

  “Strike the gong,” said the priest.

  Nyla snarled at his commanding tone. The priest was a man. She was of the blood. She turned on him, swinging. The heavy bar cracked against his head.

  The torch clattered to the floor. The priest collapsed beside it, stretched out, unconscious. She debated striking again and killing him.

  Thag groaned, and in his drugged state, he slumped to the floor with a rattling of chains.

  Nyla felt the immensity, the approaching power. She set the bar back on its stand. Should she pick up the torch? What would Gog say about the priest?

  “ASSASSIN.”

  The word vibrated through Nyla, jarring her bones. The sound came from a giant’s height, a giant with a mammoth’s weight.

  Despite her resolve, Nyla’s knees buckled. She sensed an unblinking eye—dreadful, mystic and grossly singular, as Gog no doubt studied her. She’d heard the rumor that Lod had blinded him, but who had ever confirmed that? Who had ever seen Gog? The subterranean god ever cloaked himself in darkness.

  A slippery thing, like a giant eel or tentacle, lashed into view, into the tiny radius of torchlight. The black tentacle curled around Thag’s waist, picked him up and drew the brute into darkness. Soon, terrible wet noises occurred. There was the breaking of bones, the tearing of skin and sounds of chewing and gulping. In this place, it was too much. Nyla groveled on her belly before Gog.

  The vile sounds continued, and the stench of entrails grew overwhelming. Several times near the flickering torch, droplets of blood splattered.

  Finally, Gog whispered, “Assassin.”

  “Yes, Great One,” Nyla panted.

  “I have a task for you.”

  Nyla groveled, not daring to look up. Yet she felt cheated that Gog didn’t commend her for capturing Thag. It had been a difficult feat, but one she had successfully accomplished. Gog was Shamgar’s god, but surely even a god should remember to say thank you and to praise the successful.

  “Are you listening, Assassin?” The whispered words dripped with menace.

  Was it possible that Gog sensed her disquiet? Nyla’s stomach tightened painfully. “I am honored, Great One, that you should think of me.”

  “Dagon, son of my seed, needs aid. He seeks the great Behemoth of the Sea of Nur, the mighty bull whose strength is legendary. It is said that none born of woman can capture the Behemoth. But the sons of Gog will prevail.”

  “Yes, Great One.”

  Gog’s breathing grew heavier. “It is not for the likes of you to judge my words.”

  Nyla cringed a
s she recalled Thag’s words. Gog had gone insane. She’d just agreed with Gog, yet the god had become angry with her. She must speak now with great care.

  “I crave your pardon, Great One. I am a fool.”

  “YOU ARE A WORM!” Gog’s powerful voice swept through Nyla’s body.

  She groveled abjectly, fearing for her life. Had Thag spoken the truth concerning Gog’s madness?

  Then something wet smacked the floor near Nyla’s head. She flinched, biting her lower lip lest she scream in terror.

  “Dagon leads his beastmasters to the Sea of Nur where the Behemoth lives,” said Gog, whispering once more. “They will master the great beast and return it to Shamgar.”

  Nyla listened with disbelief. She’d heard the legends of the Behemoth. The mighty creature would likely destroy the swamp city by its presence. Could Gog think to use the Behemoth as a weapon of war? If such a thing were possible, if the legends concerning the beast were true—beastmaster control of the Behemoth would make Gog invincible in battle.

  “I sense the cunning thoughts flashing through you,” whispered Gog.

  Renewed fear curled in Nyla. Could Gog read her mind?

  “How transparent you are, a child in guile. Yet you have your uses, which is fortunate for you.”

  Nyla lay still, trying to enter the cold state she used for her best assassinations. She didn’t trust anything else now. Thag had been right. Gog was dangerous even to those who served him well.

  “Dagon and his beastmasters travel to the Sea of Nur,” whispered Gog, his deep voice lowering. “I have bloodied the mystic path and seen what awaits them. I have seen, too, a fierce gnat whose presence I desire. That one must stand here. He must stand in chains before me.”

  Gog stirred, and a strange noise occurred. It sounded like weeping. Almost the moment the noise occurred, however, it stopped. Heavy breathing began anew, like that of a bull hippopotamus about to charge and trample.

  Nyla waited, and she strove to drive Thag’s doom-laden words from her mind.

  “I have seen Lod. He and a worm named Keros head to the Sea of Nur. Lod will seek to thwart my sons. O, I have seen much, including the need for theltocarna.”

  “Great One?” whispered Nyla.

  Even heavier breathing occurred. “Interrupt me again, and I will feast on your flesh and pick my teeth with your bones.”

  Nyla stared at the blood droplets near the guttering torch. Gog’s threats were never idle.

  “You will carry theltocarna,” whispered Gog. “It will help in taming the Behemoth. You must also devote yourself to capturing Lod as you have caught Thag. Bring me Lod, and you may name your reward. Fail me in this, and you shall curse the day you were born.”

  In numb fear, Nyla waited.

  “Why do you tarry?” whispered Gog. “Take the theltocarna and do as I have bidden.”

  Nyla climbed unsteadily to her feet, and she saw something on the floor. With a shudder of revulsion, she realized what it was. It was the moist skin of Thag’s head and face, which had been stripped off like a fleshy mask. The skin was wrapped like a bag around theltocarna, a drug that felt like sand. Nyla clutched the Thag-skin to her seething stomach and staggered from Gog’s presence.

  The Rovian Forest

  -1-

  A grotesquely muscled man, with twisted arms like oak roots, brooded as he tramped through a forest. He wore a leather vest and had muscles piled on muscles. His hands were like talons, deformed, ugly and fantastically strong. He had a leathery face and wild white hair with a tangled white beard. His blue eyes blazed like a desert prophet on the verge of divination.

  His name was Lod. He had two companions. The first was Tamar, a former rat-hunter of Shamgar. The second was a dead primitive slung over shoulder. The primitive had nut-brown skin, was half Lod’s size and wore a feather loincloth. The dead man had awful, beastly wounds around his throat and chest.

  Lod clenched a bloody spear in his fist. He’d drawn it out of the cave hyena that had slain the primitive. This was the third time he’d witnessed such butchery, the work of Ut of Cave Hyenas, a beastmaster of foul reputation.

  Tamar walked ahead of him with her shoulders slumped. Once she had been a rat huntress of Shamgar. Using her rat-boat, she, Lod and Keros had journeyed through the swamps surrounding Shamgar. They had journeyed east toward the Sea of Nur. Two days ago, beastmasters had ambushed and almost captured them. Lod had grabbed Tamar and had fought free of the trap. Neither of them knew what had happened to Keros after his long fall down a mountain slope.

  Tamar was smooth-limbed and agile, and she wore squirrel-fur garments. She had shoulder-length red hair, held by a bone clasp carved by Keros, her love. A tan hid her freckles, but did nothing to hide her sadness. She had spoken little since the ambush. When she did, she spoke about Keros in the past tense and barely choked back her tears.

  Lod shifted the dead man on his shoulder. The grimmest of enemies were on their trail, they were the children of Gog. In a vision, he’d learned the Nephilim hunted for the legendary Behemoth of the Sea of Nur. Lod hated Gog and he loathed the pirate city of Shamgar. As a child, he’d swum in the canals as rat bait. There, he’d worn a collar and leash, luring the giant rats into range of his hunter’s tridents. Most bait lived weeks. He’d survived years, hardened into a thing with uncanny reflexes and with a ferocious desire to survive. Since escaping the canals and Shamgar, he’d lived a long and savage life. The worst of it had been twenty long years as a galley slave, years which had transformed a strong man into the grotesquely muscled brute that now treaded between the trees.

  Lod was only a man, but one with the gift of Elohim’s sight. He yearned to stalk through Shamgar with fire and sword, killing Nephilim, the sons of the First Born, Gog. Most men bowed to the greater strength and necromantic power of those with the blood of the bene elohim. Lod had supped too deeply of degradation in his youth for that. He’d learned the lessons of rat bait too well. Where others bowed in submission, Lod rose up in rage, fighting impossible battles with zealous fanaticism.

  Lod now increased his step until he strode beside Tamar. She walked with her head bowed.

  “The Nephilim offhandedly slaughter these forest primitives,” said Lod. “They plot their own destruction with their arrogant ways.”

  Tamar barely glanced up, frowning at him.

  “It’s a mistake to idly kill these warriors,” said Lod. “I mean to use that against the Nephilim.”

  “None of that matters to me,” said Tamar.

  Lod looked away. Tamar had loved Keros, but now Keros was likely dead, which was yet another mark against the Nephilim. The lad had been good with a blade and crafty in the ways of the trail. Lod missed the mountain warrior, but not as much as this poor waif did. Lod wished he knew the words to soften Keros’s passing for Tamar. Gruffly, he put a hand on her shoulder.

  Tamar bit her lip. Then she bowed her head, stifling any further weeping.

  Lod took his hand away. “We must reach the Sea of Nur before the beastmasters,” he said.

  “I smell water,” Tamar whispered.

  “The sea?” asked Lod.

  “No. A stream, I think.”

  Lod shifted his burden, aware that he was thirsty.

  They trekked through a forest of mocair-trees. They were huge and ancient, towering pillars with great branches, casting the two of them into gloom. Lod and Tamar treaded at times on old nuts, musty leaves and the occasional dead branch. Lod heard the babbling stream before he saw it. Then he spied the silvery gleam of running water and a bed of mossy green stones. Lod set down the dead man, drank his fill, and then began to wash dust and accumulated filth from his skin.

  Tamar dug up red tubers, rinsing them in the stream, giving him the majority. They were bitter, but helped assuage the bite of hunger.

  Afterward, Lod found a flat stone and chose a spot, brushing aside dead leaves. He began scraping away dirt, digging into the loam. Soon, he hacked at roots with the primitive’s flint kn
ife. Lod had a short sword, a keen-edged blade, but he never considered using it as a hatchet or a shovel. The sword was a weapon, and he was a man who saved his weapons for fighting.

  Tamar washed the primitive’s body, combed his hair and laid flowers over the ghastly wounds in his neck and chest. That impressed Lod. He nodded. They dignified the dead by doing this. They made the primitive important, not just meat for wild animals.

  The gloom deepened as dusk settled. Nighttime sounds began. In the distance, a large beast roared. Lod looked up, and he checked to make sure his spear was nearby. Another far-off beast roared.

  “Lions must have found the dead hyena,” Tamar said.

  After a few moments contemplation, Lod lifted the corpse’s shoulders and Tamar the legs. Together, they deposited the primitive into the hole. Lod used the flat stone to shovel the dirt into it. Then he jammed the stone into the soft soil. He wondered if he should scratch a mark into the stone. Lod couldn’t read or write, and he didn’t know what sort of mark would be appropriate. So he did nothing more.

  Tamar knelt by the grave, pressing her hands into the soil, mumbling a quiet prayer.

  Lod grew uneasy afterward. He looked around. The roaring beasts—

  Suddenly, a horn blared nearby. Muffled voices shouted orders. Answering voices came from various directions around them.

  Lod grabbed the spear and Tamar’s hand, dragging her away from the grave. They ran into the deeper gloom. He should have been more alert. Ut would certainly want revenge against any that slew his hyenas. Lod berated himself for becoming lax. Scowling, he determined that Ut would never get his hands on Tamar.

  “Listen to me,” Lod said, yanking Tamar close. “Keep running that way. You’ll make it to a river. I’ll go back and delay them.”

  “But—” Tamar tried to say.

  “Go,” said Lod, as he shoved her. “Run!”

  She hesitated a moment longer. Then she began running away. Lod hefted his spear and turned back, determining to slay as many as he could.