Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  From behind, the monster grunted heavily. The beast was almost on top of him. Lod chanced a glance over his shoulder. There! He spied a wall of shaggy brown fur. The size…his eyes boggled. The monster shambled on all fours like a bear with claws the size of knives. The beast shouldered aside trees as it barreled through the forest. It had a clumsy, rolling gait and was enormous, gigantic, a titan of a bear. The massive head swiveled about, and it halted its mad rush, spraying dirt and torn foliage like flotsam.

  Lod slammed into a tree, hugging it, slid around the tree and looked back through a fork in the trunk. The monster heaved up onto its hind legs. In unbelieving wonder, Lod gaped at a creature nearly thrice the height of a man, a towering monstrosity. The beast had to be heavier than thirty men, as strong as a bull mammoth. Such a bear hadn’t walked the Earth since the dawn of Time—if ever. The massive head lifted upward as slaver drooled from jaws that held teeth the size of spear-blades. A black tongue licked out, and the beast waded forward.

  Iram shouted from up in a tree. He tried to climb higher, reaching for a branch just out of reach. The bear coughed, put enormous paws against the pillar of the forest and pushed. The mocair-tree was huge, yet it shook, its thousands of broad leaves rustling. The bear shoved again, and Iram hurled a dart down at the head. Incredibly, Iram missed. The bear arched back and thumped the tree with the heaviest blow yet. That shook Iram out of the tree. He plummeted, hitting the ground with a wet thud.

  The great beast dropped onto all fours. Small Iram tried to scramble upright. The bear scooped him in its jaws and lifted the body off the forest floor. It bit down, and Iram stared with glazed eyes, blood running down his carcass. The bear chewed, crunching bones and mangling skin. In a sudden frenzy, the bear shook its head. It bit through the corpse, the torso thudding onto the ground. Then the beast gulped the flopping legs.

  Lod came to himself as the slaughter woke his outrage. It was a beast, a monster, yet it fed on people. The creature seemed evilly sentient, knowingly murderous. It swiveled its head toward him, and it grunted. When its black eyes met Lod’s blue-eyed stare, Lod felt the vibration in his skull return. Lod’s skin crawled with revulsion. He was powerless against such might, against a monster with the strength of a mammoth. He took a step away. The abomination took a step toward him.

  Lod spun around and ran. He used the trees, keeping them between himself and the beast. The bear proved remorseless, however, driving Lod from one desperate stratagem to another. He couldn’t shake the beast that smashed through the forest. Soon he felt the beast’s snuffling as mockery. He had to do something. He had to change tactics.

  Lod put down his head and in a burst of speed, he flew through the forest, leaping fallen logs and dodging tree trunks. Then he came to the edge of a cliff, with sharp rocks a good eighty feet below. He turned right, sprinting along the cliff-edge. In time, he broke into a clearing of high grass. He ran, and he stopped in the middle of the clearing. Reavers with nets, a good thirty maybe, stood just inside the forest on the other side. Captive Rovians already lay trussed like cattle at their feet.

  The cliff edge—this was a trap. The beast had driven him. No! The beastmaster controlling the monster had driven him.

  The abomination grunted wetly.

  Lod spun around. The monster broke out of the forest. Froth stained its bloody muzzle. Seeing him, it increased its pace to a lumbering gallop. Excitedly, its jaws slipped open and a huge black tongue lolled out. Lod wiped his sweaty hand on his breeches. He drew his blade and set himself as death barreled closer. The bear panted like a bellows.

  I shall not fear, Lod told himself. He would at least cut the paw that killed him.

  Suddenly, the great cave bear halted. It was about forty feet from Lod. The creature glared at him with mad eyes. It shook its head, and it seemed to struggle with itself. At each heaving breath, saliva pelted the grass.

  As he crouched, with his sword ready, Lod’s eyes were on the beast. Then he noticed a huge beastmaster in a long fur coat. The half-Nephilim walked behind the bear, heading toward it.

  Chemosh the Shaman, he was the most famous beastmaster of Shamgar. He had a bloated face and a heavy forked beard. Gripping a bleached skull that dangled from his neck, the beastmaster obviously channeled terrible forces. It must have been what Lod had sensed earlier.

  “Fools!” shouted Chemosh. “Come in and net him. I have him trapped.”

  The cave bear rose up onto its hind legs. It rose up to its monstrous height.

  Snarling, Lod’s eyes tightened. So did the grip of his sword. Foul necromancy had twisted the creature into an abomination. The beast had eaten Iram, had likely slaughtered masses of Rovians before this. Lod glanced over his shoulder at the net-men. Then he fixed his gaze on the monster.

  “You come at me with beasts and spells!” Lod shouted as he raised his sword. “I came at you in the name of Elohim!”

  Chemosh laughed harshly as he raised the skull. Flakes of bone drifted from it, and something ghostly moved within the eye sockets.

  With a groan, the great bear dropped onto all fours. The ground trembled because of it. Chemosh lowered the skull so it dangled from the chain around his neck. Then he strode to the bear, reached up to its throat and hooked a leash to a collar. The beastmaster was big, but the monster dwarfed him.

  “My spells have drawn a net of lace around your mind,” Chemosh called. “I always knew you were a fraud, not this thing called a Seraph.” He motioned to the reavers. “Move in and net me this lout!”

  A few net-men hesitantly left the trees, stepping into the clearing.

  A swordsman followed. He grinned sickly as sweat dripped from his face. “Come on, lads. We’ve netted warriors before. That man out there is no different.”

  Lod trembled with passion, the power of speech nearly beyond him now. He wanted to kill everyone.

  From the trees opposite the cliff-edge, a man shouted hoarsely. Then Keros staggered out of the forest. He stumbled and fell to the ground. His buckskins were ripped and blood dripped from his chest. The mountain warrior scrambled upright. He was pale and shaking. Out of the forest behind him trotted a huge leopard. It snarled mockingly as it followed Keros.

  The bear lifted its head, almost ripping the leash out of Chemosh’s grasp. With absorbed interest, the beast watched the leopard.

  The leopard saw the bear and snarled again, this time a frightened, spitting sound.

  “No!” said Chemosh. He raised the skull. “I am the master. You obey me.”

  The bear roared. It was a defending bellow. Everyone but Lod froze because of it. The Seraph’s muscles writhed like cables. As if in a dream, he picked up a stone.

  Chemosh shook the leash with one hand and gripped the skull with the other.

  The cave bear, the abomination, shook itself as if shaking water from its fur. It ignored Chemosh and glared at the leopard slinking toward Lod.

  Lod hurled the stone and hit the bear’s snout.

  Fury blazed in the beast’s black eyes.

  “No!” shouted Chemosh, as ghostly vapors snaked from the skull and twined around the bear’s head.

  Lod hurled a second stone. It struck Chemosh in the head, staggering the beastmaster. He winced, as his arm lowered and the skull slipped from his fingers.

  “Obey me—” Chemosh screamed.

  The bear swatted Chemosh aside, flinging him thirty feet, snapping a dozen bones. Then the monster leaped for Lod. But Lod was no longer there. The leopard had crouched down, snarling at the bear. Lod circled the leopard, putting it between him and the abomination. The leopard snarled at the great beast. The bear savagely bit the man-sized leopard like a hound destroying a house cat. Shaking its monstrous head, it bit down furiously. The leopard died with a feline snarl. Then the bear charged after Lod.

  The Seraph sprinted toward the line of reavers. They were backing up toward the forest, looking to one another. Then they were dropping their nets and pulling out their swords. They shouted at one anot
her as they backed up, not knowing what to do.

  Then Lod was among them, hewing right and left. Before they could defend themselves, the bear attacked. It crushed a reaver with a paw and bit another in half with its teeth. Terror took hold of the brigands of Shamgar. A reaver grabbed at his razor-sharp net so hard that one of his fingers tore off. Another screamed as he tripped, falling on his sword so the tip rammed up through his back. Bodies went flying as the bear went berserk. The beast moved fast, and nothing could withstand its blows. Reavers, captive Rovians—it was bloody mayhem.

  Lod might have dashed for the forest. Instead, he slipped around the murderous bear and sprinted toward where Chemosh had fallen.

  The fork-bearded beastmaster still lived, powered by his inhuman vitality. Leaving a trail of bloody, flattened grass, Chemosh dragged his broken body toward the skull. As the bear slaughtered men, the beastmaster reached out with a trembling hand. He wrapped thick fingers around the skull and lifted it triumphantly. Harsh, vile-sounding syllables gushed past his bleeding lips as his strange gaze fixated on Lod.

  The great bear grunted and turned from its slaughter. Lod glanced back. The bear shuffled toward him.

  Chemosh raised his head. Blood stained his teeth and clotted in his beard. “I’m not so easy to kill.”

  Lod swung his blade, hewing Chemosh’s wrist, severing it and the skull from his arm.

  Chemosh seemed not to care, pointing with his spurting stump. “The spell needed blood. Now you’re doomed.”

  Lod lifted his booted foot as revulsion shined in his eyes. His foot smashed the vile skull. As he smashed it, the skull exploded so bone fragments splintered and puffed into a white cloud. Ghostly shapes showered outward next. They flung Lod aside so he lay in the grass unconscious, several feet from the mangled beastmaster. The explosion seemed to have proven too much for Chemosh, who now lay dead. The bear bawled in pain as it hurled itself back, rolling, tumbling, its black tongue hanging out as it panted. Then it was up and running away, fleeing the geyser of souls.

  ***

  Keros swallowed painfully, blinking, unsure what he’d just seen. He lay in the grass where he’d fallen when trying to escape the leopard. The first charge of the bear had bypassed him.

  Every instinct now told him to get up and flee. Evil filled the glade. An insidious evil waited to pounce. Keros worked to his feet, and he wavered. The Rovians were dead, most rolled in silken lines, butchered like netted carp. The surviving reavers had fled. The bear crashed into the forest, bawling in terror as if flames licked across its fur.

  Tamar remained a captive in Dagon’s camp. If anyone could free her from the Nephilim…it had to be the madman lying in the grass.

  Keros limped to Lod, keeping as far away from the beastmaster as he could. That one was dead now. But why did the corpse grin? Keros kept a sharp eye out for any skull fragments. He was certain that touching one would bring bad luck. He knelt as blood dripped from his leopard-slashed chest. Keros jerked upright. His heart hammered as sweat pooled under his armpits. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied something by the grinning corpse. The something had tried to move slyly, something small and dark. Keros had the overwhelming sensation of being watched.

  Flattened, bloody grass lay behind the corpse. The beastmaster had obviously made a supreme effort to reach the skull. Why had that been important? Why did the corpse grin as if victorious? Keros wiped sweat out of his eyes. He wanted to get out of here.

  Keros touched Lod’s shoulder. Lod opened his eyes.

  “Can you stand?” Keros asked.

  Lod raised himself onto an elbow. He seemed dazed.

  “We must go,” said Keros. “We must leave before Dagon arrives.”

  Lod frowned with incomprehension.

  “Dagon is headed to the Sea of Nur. We must free Tamar before he gets there.”

  Lod grunted as understanding crossed his features.

  Keros helped Lod as the big warrior struggled to his feet. Then the two of them limped out of the glade.

  -11-

  At his body’s death, Chemosh’s spirit hadn’t gone down to Sheol. The blood of his dying together with the last magic of his skull had strengthened his spirit. Now he attempted possession.

  Chemosh remembered grim lessons learned on the Isle of Poseidonis. The City of Screaming Skulls had stunk like a slaughter yard. There the god of Poseidonis had annually dragged thousands of captives into the underground vaults. With hooks, the god had ripped out beating hearts. Through necromancy, he had torn out their souls.

  In those years, Chemosh had learned through observation. He had served the god and gained skill in skull magic. One night, deep in the vaults, the god had taught him a terrible and singular spell.

  “I will never need it,” Chemosh had said. He remembered those arrogant words. What folly.

  With his teeth starkly white in the gloom of his chambers, the god of death-magic had smiled.

  He who had so recently been Chemosh the Shaman bitterly remembered the agony of his training. It was dangerous magic to stand by a dying human and grasp his tortured soul. It was an exquisite art, the infliction of terrible, dehumanizing pain without bringing quick death. There was a moment of stretching as the human clung to life, refusing death. The soul stretched, eager to leave, to tear loose from agonizing life. Then the necromancer had to snatch the soul and wrestle it into the confinement of a specially prepared skull. The lashing and writhing of the soul, the frantic fight brought great danger. It was always a harrowing experience. Yet through the years, Chemosh the Shaman had hardened his spirit. He had been of the blood, and that had given him mighty advantages.

  No one would ever have been able to tear his soul loose from his flesh and confine it in a skull. He could have blocked it because of his grimly learned knowledge. Not even the god of Poseidonis could have succeeded. The spirit that had been the essence of Chemosh still believed that.

  The great and secret spell of the death-god was possession of another. It was the transfer of your spirit into the flesh of the living. It was gaining mastery of a living body and taking it for your own.

  The spirit of Chemosh waited as it gathered strength. During the wait, it fought off bitter, debilitating despair. Who am I? That question had echoed for days, and the confusion of the spirit’s answers had almost negated the spell of possession. The spirit had almost slipped away into the night. It had almost gone to whatever destiny awaited it in the unknown void.

  Chemosh longed to hear again, to taste again and see, smell and feel. It frightened him almost beyond his will power not to engage in living activities.

  How will I possess this flesh? That was the next question.

  Chemosh pondered the answer. The flesh had a name. Its name—his name was Lod.

  The rat bait? I’m trying to possess mere rat bait?

  It was then Chemosh realized that the spell had not preformed properly. He should already be in possession of the body. Now he would have to fight Lod for his flesh. It would be a contest of wills. It could prove to be a long fight. Therefore, the spirit gathered its will, and it struggled to become aware of time and sense in a nebulous fashion the physical world. It—he would need cunning and knowledge of when it would be best to claw for control.

  Time passed—he couldn’t take forever! The spirit knew a moment of terror as it realized that it only had limited time. If he took too long, his spirit would slip off Lod’s throat.

  Chemosh strove to become aware. He used up horded strength. And then on a sudden it came. He tapped into Lod’s life, tapped into his strength. Oh sweet mystery of life, he could sense again, and he became aware of garbled words pouring from Lod’s mouth. He wanted to be inside Lod’s thoughts, but this was a beginning. Chemosh pushed his spirit. He pushed and realized the god of Poseidonis hadn’t told him everything. Bitter rage consumed him for a time, until he channeled that rage against Lod and finally began understanding the words that came out of Lod’s mouth.

  Soon, he would ma
ke his bid for possession, very soon. First, he had to study and gain every scrap of knowledge about Lod that he could. Chemosh was not about to let mere rat bait, not even the legend of the canals, thwart him a second time.

  ***

  Lod and Keros should have made better time. They followed Dagon. It wasn’t hard. Wagons gouged tracks out of the forest soil. There had to be over a hundred Rovian captives, never mind the sea reavers and assorted beasts. The stench of their trail, the combined dung, meant a blind man could have followed them.

  One morning, Lod massaged his throat as he crouched beside a rutted wheel-track. He rested his hand on a mossy stone. A tall sycamore tree cast him in shadow.

  “Are you feeling well?” asked Keros.

  Lod coughed even though he wasn’t sick. His limbs felt fatigued even though he wasn’t injured. It felt as if he carried an extra weight. He stood up. There was pressure on his throat. He kicked at the rutted track, sending a dirt clod flying. The clod spattered against a tree trunk.

  “We have to free Tamar,” Keros said. He clapped a hand on his sword. “The idea of her in the Nephilim’s hands—it enrages me.”

  “Yes,” said Lod, “let’s go.” He had his iron dart. He planned to hurl it at the first reaver who tried to ambush them. Dagon must know that he hadn’t given up.

  Lod trudged beside the rutted track. Was there something in this humid forest air? He was sick of all these leaves. He wanted to feel the wind again. He wheezed. Why did he feel so tired? Keros didn’t seem tired.

  This was ridiculous. They had to beat Dagon to the sea, not straggle behind. What possible reason was there for this pressure on his throat? It made no sense. He decided to ignore it. You defeated pain, defeated weariness by refusing to accept it.

  “Wait,” Lod said later in the afternoon. He knelt by a babbling brook, washing his face. A trout flashed from hiding. Only a few days ago, he might have tried to snatch the fish or spear it with his dart. Now…. “I have to rest.” Lod set aside his dart and found Keros studying him.