Eber frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think any Rovian can slay a Nephilim, never mind the beast which the Hormagaunt say has an evil spirit of destruction.”
Lod’s blue eyes burned with passion as he asked Keros to draw his Bolverk-forged dagger-sword. “Do you see that?”
“It’s a sword,” said Eber.
“Not just any sword,” said Lod.
Eber’s frown deepened as the other Rovians grew uneasy.
Lod was too caught up with his enthusiasm to notice. “You know this forest, but you obviously don’t know swords. Draw yours.” Eber was the only Rovian with a sword. Likely, he had won it long ago as a prize of war, or his father had won it and handed it down to his son.
Eber now hesitated. He seemed torn. Finally, slowly, he slid the short sword from its leather sheath. “It has the red sickness,” he said.
Rust covered the blade, appalling Lod. A warrior should cherish his weapons. Lod took a breath and told himself not to worry about a primitive’s rusty old sword.
“Strike your sword against Eber’s blade,” Lod told Keros.
Keros gently tapped his sword against the other.
“Can you hear the difference?” asked Lod.
Eber stared at Lod. Then the Rovian warrior twitched his shoulders in a shrug.
“Suppose your blades crossed,” said Lod. “Keros’s would either notch your sword or shatter it. It would be as if your sword was made of flint and mine of iron.”
Eber frowned at his sword. “My sword has the red sickness,” he said, as if that explained it.
“It has nothing to do with rust,” Lod said testily.
“The point is we must attack,” said Keros, who glanced at Lod, lifting his eyebrows. “Monsters and Nephilim have invaded your forest. Rovian villages lie smoldering, the women and children slaughtered and others taken into captivity. You must strike before these killers reach deeper into your territory. Lod’s plan is a good beginning.”
“Nephilim and their followers are arrogant beyond reason,” said Lod. “They will not expect an attack from us.”
“That is not what the legends say,” a small warrior whispered. “Nephilim are more cunning than wolves.”
Several other warriors nodded.
“We will set a trap for them,” said Lod.
Eber touched his scarred cheek. “Once, I made a trap that shattered. The leopard in it broke free and mangled my face.” He touched the leopard-claw necklace. “I killed it, true. But what will happen to us if your trap breaks against the Nephilim?”
“The Nephilim march to the Sea of Nur,” said Keros. “They seek to capture the Behemoth.”
Rovian warriors cast dark looks in the direction of the enemy encampment.
Eber nodded thoughtfully.
A different warrior said, “Remember what the Hormagaunt told us? The great beast of a bear has slain some of their mightiest warriors. Red soldiers butchered hundreds of Hormagaunts and captured a hundred more. How can we defeat those that nobody else has?”
“You have bows,” said Lod, in a passion. “I will show you how to hurt them without being hurt yourselves.”
“They will send the hyenas after us,” a warrior said.
“Yes,” said Lod, barely controlling his growing exasperation. “That’s part of my plan.”
Eber glanced at the dagger-sword still in Keros’s grip. He looked at his own rusty blade. Something changed in his good eye. He sheathed his sword and leaned toward Lod. “Tell us your plan.”
Lod grinned fiercely, his exasperation forgotten, and he began to outline his thoughts.
-5-
Lod slunk through the forest at the head of the Rovians, seven warriors adept with the bow.
Lod clutched a spear and hefted a Rovian shield. A warrior had woven it from reeds and stretched a toughened boar hide across it, painting the hide with clan symbols. Such a shield was meant for deflecting arrows or a thrown hatchet. It wouldn’t stop determined spears thrusts or withstand many chops from an iron scimitar. Still, it was greater protection than he’d had before, and Lod was grateful for it, having told the craftsman so.
“Kill the red soldiers of Shamgar,” the warrior had told him. “That will be my reward.”
Lod pushed past branches and picked a thorn out of his breeches. The thorn had pricked his thigh. It reminded him that although the Rovians were masters at woodcraft, none of them wore armor. Armor implied civilized tactics. The seven Rovians had never practiced with swords or been taught what to do fighting in rank against others. The Rovians ambushed. The slow creep through the forest, the hissed arrow and war-whoop and the blow from behind, that was how they warred against their foes. A foolish leader used his men in ways they were unused too. A wise leader took what he had and fit the plan to his men.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later, Eber stopped and pointed. “This is good.”
They stood at the edge of a small glade, one filled with yellow flowers and tall purple thistles. A tree had fallen into the glade, an old trunk with hunks of fungus slowly devouring it.
Lod grinned. Yes, this might work. He told the Rovians, “Hyenas are faster than men. So they’ll lead the charge. If I run through here, the flowers and thistles will give the beasts cover. You must trample them flat. It will be hard enough shooting running beasts.”
“That is clever,” said Eber.
“Roll the trunk that way,” said Lod. “You’ll hide behind it.”
Eber nodded.
“I need one warrior to show me where the enemy is,” said Lod. “The warrior doesn’t have to come all the way in with me, but can hang back.”
Eber said, “I will show you.”
“You need to stay here to prepare.”
Eber glanced at him sidelong. “You don’t trust my warriors otherwise?”
Lod put his hand on Eber’s shoulder. “You are their chief. When your warriors hear howling beasts and the clatter of soldiers coming, they will fear. All men fear. Pride holds some to their station. Toughness holds others. An old friend once told me that the fear of looking cowardly before his companions shames most men into holding his ground. As they respect you the most, your eye watching them will stake them to their spot better than anyone else.”
Eber motioned over one of the younger Rovians. The lad’s dark hair hung in his eyes and he was lean like a weasel. Eber whispered instructions to the lad and pointed at Lod.
“He is a good warrior,” Eber told Lod, “a brave hunter.”
Soon, Lod followed the nimble-footed lad as they broke into a trot toward the enemy.
***
Slaves stripped to the waist sweated under the forest canopy. Their calloused hands clutched newly hewn wood. Some had worn their shoulders raw, the lumber of the platform having rubbed against skin for hours. But the panting slaves knew better than to complain. At least they weren’t the woman tied to the cross.
The Bloodspillers, those with scimitars rattling at their hips and carrying bucklers, had grown bored. They were bored with tripping over roots, bored with getting their boots muddy and certainly bored with staring into the forest depths with its dense greenery. Thorn, their leader, a tall soldier with a spade-shaped beard and a silk scarf wound around his throat, had complained to Ut. While two handlers had fanned Ut to keep him cool, the beastmaster had stared at Thorn. Although he did not fall under a spell, the Bloodspiller had turned pale, bowed and returned to his men. From then on, none of the other Bloodspillers had grumbled within Ut’s hearing.
The hyena-handlers certainly knew better than to complain to Ut. The handlers with their shaved heads and blood-drop tattoos on their cheeks kept a firm grip on their leashes. The big cave hyenas constantly whined. They sniffed the ground and the air, and often squatted to relieve themselves.
Ut glowered at the two handlers with the long-handled fans. They quickened their strokes. The forest was too humid. His sweat remained in his linen bandages. He would have to rewrap himself once he returned to camp.
Slaves, Bloodspillers, handlers, the Nebo tracker and Ut each headed back toward camp, following the stream as their path. They tramped thoughtlessly and wearily. Undoubtedly, each looked forward to taking off his boots, those that wore them. In their haste, the company almost trampled the Nebo tracker. He stood transfixed, pointing at the man who waited before them in the brush.
***
It took the company precious seconds to notice Lod.
Lod cupped his hands, shouting, “Untie the girl! Let her go. Then I’ll walk in.”
From the cross, Tamar stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes. She looked so helpless up there, her breasts exposed beneath her torn garments.
Lod’s lips curled. Filthy reavers. He spotted Ut in his long fur coat. Ut crouched among the hyenas. He spoke to the beasts.
“Did you hear me?” Lod shouted.
Ut motioned to a tall swordsman with a silk scarf wound around his throat, Thorn. The two conferred. Thorn soon hurried back to his men. Ut strode to the front of the company.
Lod waited like a statute, with his arms folded across his chest. He’d already marked out the three soldiers who had tied Tamar last night. Those three he personally wanted to kill. Lod’s shield, sword and spear lay behind a rock, out of sight of the reavers. He wanted them to think him defenseless. He wanted them as arrogant as they could be.
Ut fondled a golden object, pressing it against his lips. Then Ut spoke loudly and yet it seemed pitched as normal speech. “You must surrender, Lod. Only after you’ve surrendered will I release the girl.”
Ut used magic, Lod realized. He took a deep breath and looked across the distance at Ut. “I’ll run if you don’t do it my way.”
“If you run I shall cut Tamar’s face. You wouldn’t like that, eh?”
“Are you a pig?” shouted Lod. “I’m giving myself into Dagon’s hands. I’m complying with his will. Now you’ll risk losing me?”
Ut touched the head of a hyena. The ugly brute whined with high-pitched eagerness, dragging its handler forward.
The nearest reaver sneered as he rested his hands on his scimitar hilt, ready to draw the curved blade. Those in back readied darts or nervously refolded capture-nets.
Ut laughed cruelly as he watched Lod. “It is so noble of you to sacrifice your life for the girl’s. I knew a Seraph couldn’t resist the chance to play the martyr. Is it love? Is that your weakness?”
“Let her go!” shouted Lod.
Ut raised his hand, with its single gold ring. “Show him the knife.”
A handler raised a wickedly curved dagger.
Terror twisted Tamar’s features. She gave Lod an imploring glance even as she tugged at her bonds.
“Let the knifeman walk onto the platform,” said Ut.
“Wait!” shouted Lod, who judged them ready. “Don’t do it!”
“Hurry to me now,” said Ut. “Do it quickly or I will demand that you crawl on your belly.”
Lod knelt, gripping the hidden spear.
“It’s too late begging for mercy,” Ut said with a laugh.
“Yes!” Lod roared, spittle flying from his lips. “It is too late!” He leaped up and hurled the spear.
After tramping in the forest for hours, Ut’s reflexes were poor. It likely took him a moment to understand what occurred, this deadly reversal. Then the sight of the spear zooming at him tore a booming screech from his throat. He tried to dodge, but it was pitifully slow and much too late. The spear pierced his left shoulder, spinning him around and hurling Ut violently onto the ground.
Lod slipped his arm into the reed shield’s loops and he clutched the bone hilt of his blade. He turned and ran into the forest, leaves slapping his face.
Reavers and handlers alike shouted in dismay. Some handlers deftly unhooked their beasts. The cave hyenas screamed their wretched cries and scrambled after Lod.
“We dare not lose him!” roared Thorn the Swordsman. “After him, lads, or Dagon will have our hides for sure.”
The reavers roared as one, ripping out scimitars or hefting darts, clattering with their bucklers and braces of daggers. They chased after the squat beasts, following them into the forest.
Lod charged through the undergrowth, snapping twigs and smashing fallen nuts, a blur of greenery flashing past him. He caught glimpses of the Rovian lad racing ahead, leading him back to Eber and the others. The enemy had beasts, trained swordsmen with iron weapons and shields. Lod wanted to spread them out in the depths of the forest, not allow them to bunch up tightly where they could charge the Rovians all at once. A savage laugh bubbled out of Lod’s throat. Ut thought he had him. Lod hurtled a log and smashed through a thicket, branches catching his reed shield. He twisted his arm free, leaving the shield behind. That was bad luck. He had no choice but to leave the shield, as the hyenas were catching up fast. He counted seven of the beasts. Lod pumped his arms in perfect rhythm, his short sword swinging in his arm like an iron baton as he put on a burst of speed.
Lod snarled and chanced another glance back. The cursed cave hyenas bounded after him, their hindquarters lower than their bulky shoulders. Despite their odd bodies, they were fast, much faster than a man was. The lead hyena scrambled over a fallen tree trunk. They were going to reach him too soon.
Then an arrow arced past Lod and took the lead beast in its side. The hyena gave a dreadful howl and tumbled end over end, crashing into an amber bush. Lod looked up surprised. He hadn’t reached the ambush site yet. He needed more ground so the fastest of his pursuers would get ahead of the slower ones. Another arrow arched at the beasts, making one yip. A moment later, Lod found Eber running beside him, pointing left. The wiry Rovian clutched his bow in one fist and three more arrows in the other. The quiver flapped at his side.
“Go…that way,” Eber said between breaths.
Lod longed to turn and fight. He’d broken one of his gravest vows taking on the role of bait. He’d done it for Tamar.
Eber and he broke into the glade and ran over trampled flowers and thistles. Lod looked back. The hyenas charged into the clearing. They gave their weird warbling cries, certain of their prey. Eber jumped onto the log and leaped down on the other side. Lod vaulted the giant trunk, seeing Rovian warriors rise up and draw their bowstrings.
The twangs of sinew-strings and arrow hisses bade Lod twist around as fast as he could. The arrows slapped into hyena flesh. Several tumbled down. All howled with surprised misery. The Rovian warriors were good. They shot a second hail, three arrows sprouting from the throat of the lead hyena. The chorus of beastly cries brought questioning shouts from the reavers hidden by the forest.
A hyena scrambled over the trunk, spit spraying from a mouthful of heavy teeth. Lod sank his sword into the creature’s broad chest. He flung it aside, its meaty breath only a momentary puff of stench.
“Now!” Lod roared, waving his bloody sword, pointing it in the direction of the enemy. “We must attack! If the reavers see the dead beasts they’ll make a shield wall.” He clambered over the giant trunk and trotted to a twitching creature of Shamgar. There should have been shouts of joyous warriors behind him. He turned. Not a Rovian had moved from behind the fallen tree. The approaching rattle of armor, the crackle of broken branches and thud of feet must have frightened these primitives.
Keros scrambled onto the log, his sword held high. “The beasts are dead! The invaders will be at our mercy if we can catch them in the forest. Let’s follow Lod!”
“Follow Lod!” cried Eber, scrambling over the trunk.
That broke the paralysis. The Rovian warriors chee
red, scrambling faster than foxes, sprinting to catch up with Lod.
***
Tamar bit her lip instead of moaning at the cruel thongs binding her wrists. She hung from the crossed beams, the platform tilted on the ground where the slaves had dropped it. Lod had come for her. Alone, he’d faced down the reavers and had faced down horrible Ut. Lod had offered himself in place of her. Why had he done that? Lod had wild eyes and iron cables instead of muscles. Lod was not like other men. With a single spear-cast, he’d almost killed Ut.
Tamar gazed at her torn garments. She shuddered, recalling the reaver who had ripped her garment and dared fondle her. When the time came, she would plunge a dagger into his heart. The reavers were beasts—ravagers and rapists. She readied herself for pain and then twisted her wrists, trying to loosen the leather bonds. Blood trickled, and the agony built until she moaned, her vision blurring.
She couldn’t just hang here. Two slaves sat nearby, whispering together, at times glancing at her. Tamar twisted her neck, looking back. The other two slaves bore the wounded Ut, his shoulder dripping blood. He raved with pain. No doubt, they took him back to camp. Everyone else had dashed after Lod, the hyenas, the reavers, the handlers—she sucked in her breath.
The Nebo with longish arms and coarse hair sprouting from his shoulders appeared from behind a tree. Apparently, he had not joined the chase. He had a low forehead and dark, cunning eyes. He cocked his head.
Tamar did likewise. Out of the forest came desperate cries.
The Nebo shrugged his heavy shoulders. He was a squat warrior. He eyed her in a calculating manner.
Tamar glared at him. The Nebo couldn’t be a mighty warrior or he would have joined the chase. Surely, he was a coward. She could likely frighten him with words.
“Free me,” she said.
The Nebo’s expression never changed as he slipped out an iron hatchet. With his broad thumb, he tested its sharpness. He stalked toward her.
Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5) Page 6