Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  The reavers and handlers scrambled up fast, lunging at the violently shaking Thorn.

  “Please, Lord,” Thorn whined. “I bloodied my sword. I fought in your name.”

  “Tear off his clothes,” said Dagon, his terrible eyes alight with cruelty.

  The ripping was immediate as the others tore off his garments, leaving Thorn with only his silk scarf around his neck.

  “I give you life,” said Dagon, “because you fought. Yet you didn’t think to return my captive and you left your shield behind. That is a sign of cowardice.” As the others held him, Dagon used the scimitar-tip and gently lifted Thorn’s genitals. “A coward has no use for these.”

  “Please, Lord, not that. Please not that.”

  The rest of the humans of camp looked on aghast.

  “Bulls fight. Oxen simply work the fields. I give you life, Thorn, so you may continue to work in my service. But it is clear that you do not relish a fight. Thus—” Dagon deftly twisted his scimitar, castrating the howling swordsman. Dagon used the tip of his scimitar and flung the bloody parts into the forest.

  “Take him away,” growled Dagon. “See that he doesn’t bleed to death. I’ll have need of oxen before this expedition is through. You others…are you bulls or oxen?”

  “Bulls, Lord!” they bellowed. Those that still had bucklers lifted them high.

  With a wave of his sword, Dagon dismissed them. Then he pointed his tip-stained scimitar at Nyla. “You. In my tent. It’s time we talked.”

  ***

  The tent was spacious and contained ironbound sea chests and rich Caphtorite rugs. Lampposts with unlit brass lamps stood near each pole. Dagon sat in a throne-like chair, behind a heavy mocair-wood table. A scrap of parchment lay on the table, no doubt Gog’s writ concerning her.

  Nyla stood with head bowed, in a similar attitude as she took before Gog. The exhibition of castration had been a chilling example of swordsmanship. Dagon had his father’s contempt of humanity. The offhanded mutilation of his chosen soldiers showed it. Nyla understood that Dagon had calculated the result before he’d committed the act. He wanted his servants afraid of him, most Nephilim did. Their primary tenet was that humans responded best to fear and naked self-interest. Perhaps their secondary tenet was to do as they willed. Thorn’s cowardice had angered Dagon. So he had castrated an otherwise useful soldier. Out here in the Rovian Forest, it might have been wiser to wait for such an exhibition. Or did Dagon hold the forests savages in such contempt that he couldn’t see a possibility where his own sacred person might be in danger?

  “You are of the blood?” asked Dagon.

  “Of the fifth generation, Lord,” said Nyla, bowing lower.

  Dagon grunted. “That’s basely diluted, weak blood. But I suppose it’s strong enough that you can dominate a beast worthy of respect. Are you one of mine?”

  “No, Lord. I was born to Bane, son of Kron.”

  For reasons Nyla didn’t understand, none of the first four generations were female, but always male. Those of the fifth generation were seldom female, thus making her an oddity among those with the blood of the high. There were few of the sixth generation and none of the seventh, increasing sterility among the generations ensured that. Perhaps as compensation, those of the blood lived inhumanly long lives, the greater the divine heritage the longer the span and the less prone they were to the ravages of age.

  “Why did our god send you? Did he foresee new complications?”

  Nyla moistened her lips. She had vowed before Gog to capture Lod. Gog had also spoken about the minor possibility of her controlling the great Behemoth. According to Gog, Chemosh faced…crossroads. Her god had explained it simply. If the stronger beastmasters failed to gain control of the Behemoth, she would use the theltocarna. How could theltocarna tame the Behemoth, however? And what happened when the drug ran out?

  Nyla cleared her throat, wondering how she should word this. “Lord…I believe Gog foresees possible difficulties with the Behemoth.”

  “You are not being truthful with me, assassin. Our god doesn’t see difficulties with the Behemoth, but with my son Chemosh.”

  This was dangerous ground. Nyla said, “Perhaps that is so, Lord.”

  “Chemosh has masterful control of the greatest beast ever raised. I mean his cave bear. I do not therefore see future trouble with his mastering the Behemoth?”

  Nyla waited.

  Dagon leaned back and scratched himself as a great ape might, a loud, almost obscene sound. He changed the subject. “You were once our god’s premier assassin. Then you fell from grace. Is that not so?”

  “Yes, Lord.” Was Dagon telling her that Gog’s command she ensure Lod’s capture sheer vanity? Had she angered Dagon?

  “I’ve heard it said that you lost your beastmastering abilities.”

  Was he trying to diminish her? “For a time that was so, Lord.”

  “Your beastmastering abilities have returned?”

  “With rebounding strength, Lord,” she said.

  “You do not look like a boastful servant.”

  “I always adhered to the truth, Lord.”

  Dagon scratched himself again. “Chemosh is the most powerful beastmaster I’ve ever seen. He batters the cave bear’s will, dominating it, forcing the great beast to obey. I doubt if any other of my sons could do likewise. How do you of the fifth generation hope to match that?”

  You arrogant male, that is what the theltocarna is for. But Nyla kept those words within.

  “You test my patience, assassin. If you must, can you control the Behemoth?”

  “If I must, Lord, I believe so.”

  Dagon grunted, and he leaned back so his wooden throne creaked. “I am not a beastmaster, nor do I indulge my curiosity concerning such minutiae. Yet I have seen that beastmasters must bond with their pets, and that takes time. How is it that you think you can control the Behemoth quickly enough?”

  “Lord?” said Nyla.

  “Play no games with me, little assassin.”

  Nyla bowed once more. If she spoke about the theltocarna, Dagon might confiscate it. Would Gog punish her later for having lost the drug?

  “Is your ability that great?” Dagon asked in a dangerous tone.

  “…Our god has chosen me, Lord.”

  Silence filled the tent as the Nephilim’s eyes narrowed. “Look at me.”

  Nyla looked up into Dagon’s eyes. They were as priceless sapphires mounted in dogwood, his animalistic features incongruous with such orbs. Dagon had demonic will, it radiated from him, beating at her in a swift attempt at spiritual domination.

  She flinched, as he obviously wanted her to. Yet she fought his terrible will. I am of the fifth generation. I have the blood of the high. If she failed Gog, he would hurl her aside. That would plunge her into obscurity, if Gog let her live. The thought steeled her resolve, even as sweat prickled her scalp and a wormy sensation twisted her stomach. Then she felt an irresistible pressure against her eyeballs. The push grew, until it felt as if her eyes might squish out of the sockets.

  Nyla cried out, throwing her arms before her. “Gog has branded me with a task, Lord! I am sealed in his name, bonded to him.”

  Dagon brushed aside the table, rose and clutched the front of her garment, effortlessly lifting her. “I rule here, assassin. My will is law. Do you defy me?”

  “Never, Lord,” whispered Nyla.

  Dagon flung her onto the floor, and he loomed above her.

  She didn’t whimper, beg or grovel, but lay still as if in the presence of a god.

  After a dreadful moment, Dagon grunted, and he eased back onto his wooden throne, wiping his watery eye. “At least you aren’t a cur that pisses itself at the first kick.” He scowled. “So you are to capture, Lod. So says Gog’s Writ. You failed miserably once before. I wonder why he gave you such a high task now.”

  That galled her. “Only I survived that encounter in the tavern, Lord. The necromancer and the Enforcer both died.”

  For a mo
ment, Dagon sat poised, as if deciding whether to hurt her for such impertinence. Instead, an evil smile twitched his simian lips. He nodded, to himself perhaps. “The Enforcer was rash, and there were others who helped the Seraph slay him. Yet an Enforcer died in Shamgar—an outrage. Hunters should have tracked down this offender and brought him back to be impaled. Ut with all his hyenas tried then and now and failed both times. Are you a hunter that can succeed?”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  Dagon drummed his fingers on the arm of his wooden throne. “Gog not only yearns for Lod’s presence, but he thinks the Seraph will help in my quest. Perhaps this is so, but I am not convinced. Jehu tried to capture him and Ut attempted his pathetic gambit.” Dagon shrugged. “What I will not tolerate is more delay. We march for the Sea of Nur. What I desire is a thorough reconnaissance of the forest. My Nebo ran like the others, so I’m sending you. Scout ahead and return with a Rovian warrior. Let’s discover how numerous they really are.”

  Nyla brushed her lips—they were suddenly much too dry. Go out alone amid hundreds of slinking savages and drag one back? “Lord, Gog demanded the Seraph’s capture. Surely I must first—”

  “Assassin,” Dagon said in a menacing voice. “Gaining the Sea of Nur trumps the Seraph. Catch Lod if you can…after you’ve performed your Dagon-given tasks. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, Lord. It will be as you say.”

  “Then go, hurry, fetch me a forest warrior.”

  Nyla bowed a last time and then strode from the tent. Then she whistled for Sheba.

  -8-

  Lod knelt behind a asm bush, with a fiercely intent Keros beside him.

  Beyond them, perhaps a hundred feet through the forest, lay Dagon’s camp. It was a din of noise: animal barks, roars, whines and human speech. A blacksmith banged on a shield and there was the high-pitched scream of a tortured soul.

  Lod’s nostrils flared. As he crouched beside Keros, Lod gripped the mountain warrior’s shoulder and pointed through the undergrowth.

  A tall beastmaster with an iron hook for a left hand strode past on a newly beaten path. The beastmaster had a gaunt face with a long, narrow beard. Behind him followed an eight-foot orn. The great bird loomed over the beastmaster, its iron-shod talons clashing against a rock. The beastmaster paid his charge no more heed than if it had been a small dog. The two hurried down the path, soon swallowed up again by the forest.

  “This is a fine piece of daring,” Keros whispered.

  “It’s nothing compared to your stealing into the Temple of Gog.”

  Keros grinned.

  Lod patted Keros’s shoulder, saying, “Keep a watch out for others. Make an owl’s hoot if you see they’ve found my trail.”

  Keros nodded sharply.

  Lod rose and boldly strode down the path, straining his ears. Someone ahead cleared his throat and spit. Lod left the path, ducking under a branch as he entered the underbrush. He worked his way nearer the enemy.

  “Elimelech,” a man called from ahead, “you’d better not be drinking my ale.”

  For a wild heartbeat, Lod did nothing. Then the bush to his left shook. Lod drew his blade, looking around. He stepped behind a tree, leaning against the rough bark.

  “Elimelech,” a man said, “I know you’re out here. If you’re fondling a captive again without first telling me….”

  Lod stepped around the tree from the other direction, coming behind a reaver with a buckler slung on his back and holding a spear. The reaver turned. The man had a mashed nose and bloodshot eyes. Lod recognized him—one of the men who had manhandled Tamar.

  Lod sprang, plunging the blade into the man. As the reaver drew breath to scream, Lod knocked him down and clamped a hand over the man’s mouth. The reaver’s bloodshot eyes bulged with pain. Lod grunted, wondering how many Rovians this reaver had butchered these past weeks, how many maidens he’d misused.

  Lod worked feverishly as he dragged the corpse behind a spike bush and scooped dirt, throwing it over the spilled blood. Then he tore up fistfuls of grass and wiped gore from his face and cleaned his hands. Whatever he was going to do, he had do now. He left the body and crept toward the enemy camp. The undergrowth was thick and the trees towering. He paused as a beast roared somewhere near. Then there came thuds…men chopping wood.

  Lod squatted on his haunches. He couldn’t see far enough through the dense undergrowth to see the enemy camp, but the sounds were clear. Since leaving Keros, he’d likely come about three quarters of the distance.

  Lod ran his fingers through his beard as he glanced about. He sidled up to the one of the giant trees, grabbed a branch and pulled himself up. He climbed slowly, methodically, pulling himself higher and higher. He soon lost sight of the forest floor. He passed a bird’s nest, with little white tuffs in the center. Finally, he climbed to a height where through the leaves he caught a glimpse of the enemy camp.

  Tents, the Nephilim had tents, and the enemy had two-wheeled carts and oxen. Lod’s stiffened. He spied cages packed with over one hundred Rovians. The miserable forest people gripped the wooden bars of their cages or sat dejectedly. Why did Dagon need so many prisoners?

  Maybe the beastmasters used the Rovians as meat for their animals. Maybe the necromancers among the beastmasters tore out souls to fuel their skull magic.

  Movement caught Lod’s gaze. A woman in black leathers walked through camp. She was different from the others who wore mammoth-fur coats. A huge leopard trotted beside her. The woman seemed vaguely familiar. Had he met her before?

  The woman led her leopard behind a tent and out of his sight. Lod eased himself higher up in the tree in time to see her enter the forest.

  Lod searched for Tamar, studying the cages. Then he saw her stumble through camp, with a leash tied to a collar around her neck. A Nebo led her to the biggest tent. Lod snarled silently. She went into Dagon’s tent.

  Lod began climbing down the tree, raging inside. He landed with a thud and retraced his steps, heading away from the huge camp. Flies had already found the dead reaver. The flies buzzed around the corpse and crawled over it, and Lod detected the reek of spilled blood. It wouldn’t take long before one of the many hunting beasts in Dagon’s camp scented the blood. Soon Lod crouched beside the newly beaten path, peering through tall blades of grass. He darted across and began searching for the bush where he’d left Keros.

  “Hsst—Lod.”

  Lod turned fast. A thicket farther away shook. Lod hurried there, squeezing Keros’s shoulder in appreciation.

  “Orns prowl the path,” whispered Keros.

  “I saw Tamar.”

  A beast roared then, a powerful sounding beast. It came from the enemy camp.

  “We must free her,” whispered Keros.

  Lod nodded, wondering how. There were too many reavers, beasts and beastmasters for him and Keros to simply rush in and snatch Tamar. They would need darkness. They would need more warriors.

  “What now?” Keros asked.

  Lod glared in the direction of the camp. Then he beckoned the mountain warrior. “We must speak with Eber.”

  Keros bit his lip. Then he nodded, following Lod as they slipped away.

  ***

  Once in the forest, Nyla whistled. After a moment’s hesitation, Sheba trotted near.

  Nyla drew a curved knife, brushing it against her leather greaves. A forest crawling with Rovians—Nephilim arrogance had awoken the savages. What possible good had it been nailing Rovians to crosses or impaling them on stakes like bloody flowers? She knew Chemosh had found it easier stealing their souls, and it had surely intimidated others. Yet now by the accounts, the forest crawled with vengeful savages. Ut had barely survived with his life.

  Sheba glanced up, making a soft growling sound.

  Nyla crouched, listening to the forest cries, the woody creaks and occasional rustling leaves. A musty odor permeated this part of the forest. The shadows were deep and exceedingly cool, and clots of fungi choked the giant trees at their base.


  After a half mile, Nyla halted and pulled out a canteen, taking a cautious sip. If there were hundreds of Rovians, shouldn’t she have heard them by now? Could Thorn have exaggerated?

  A wry smile touched Nyla even as she berated herself. Of course, Thorn had exaggerated. Would he admit to running away from a handful of Rovians? Instead of castration, Dagon would have gutted him.

  Nyla stuck to the darkest parts of the forest, pausing often to listen. She heard shouts later, excited men jabbering over…loot!

  “Stay beside me,” whispered Nyla.

  Sheba lashed her tail as she pressed against Nyla. Together they approached the sounds. Soon, Nyla eased back a branch. Her eyes narrowed. Three small savages plundered a dead reaver of Shamgar. Several daggers lay on the slain reaver’s back, as well as his scimitar, his buckler and a handful of emeralds and shekels. The savages argued, until each nodded. The oldest then grabbed the scimitar, looping the belt over his shoulder.

  Nyla kept a hand on Sheba’s head, debating a surprise assault. Then two other savages pushed through some bushes, with sacks dangling from their nut-brown shoulders. Cautiously, Nyla slunk away, petting Sheba the entire time so the leopard wouldn’t growl.

  Nyla’s heart pounded when she found a glade full of dead hyenas. Each beast looked like a porcupine. A naked handler lay on the edge of the glade, with his face horribly hacked apart. The looting savages had already been here.

  Nyla slunk past the ambush site. Lod had obviously led the reavers into a trap. She wondered if the best course would be to slay Lod and bring Gog the corpse. Why always this need for capture and torture? It made things too hard. Her philosophy was if something was dangerous: kill it.

  Sheba snarled softly.

  Nyla halted, listening. A rustle sounded from ahead, something through the dense foliage. It sounded like a man urinating. Maybe she’d found the Rovian camp. She and Sheba traded glances. Then Nyla concentrated as she practiced her singular spell, one painfully learned over the years. She slipped her spirit into the she-leopard.