Behemoth (Lost Civilizations: 5)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Rovians cannot defeat Dagon and the great bear.”

  Keros jumped up. “I can’t just sit here, knowing what they must be doing to Tamar. In Shamgar, she risked her life helping me.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Lod.

  Keros plucked at his travel-stained tunic. He touched his bicep, a sinewy muscle. Then he glanced at Lod. Decisively, Keros began to unbuckle the Bolverk-forged dagger.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re the mightier warrior between us,” Keros said. “You should wield the better weapon.”

  “No,” said Lod, uncomfortably. “It is your sword.”

  “I give it to you,” Keros said, sounding angry. He wrapped his belt around the scabbard and shoved it at Lod.

  “No!” said Lod, standing. “You won the sword at the moment of your healing.” He loved that story, the one where Keros slew Scab the Thief. “Elohim means for you to wield the sword. Therefore, I cannot accept—”

  “I know Elohim speaks to you,” Keros said. “It was you after all who healed me in Shamgar.”

  “The healing was Elohim’s doing,” said Lod, “not mine. You must never say such a thing again. It is blasphemous to accept the credit for a deed done by Him Most High.”

  “You guided us out of Shamgar and knew your way through Nebo Swamp,” Keros said. “Time and again—”

  Lod gripped Keros’s shoulder. “You slipped into Gog’s Temple, freeing me from the Catacombs. That was a feat of great daring.”

  “Can I do any less now for Tamar?” Keros cried in anguish, tearing himself away from Lod. “I love her!”

  “We will free her,” said Lod, pushing the leather-wrapped scabbard with its princely sword back at Keros.

  Keros hefted it. Then he buckled the belt around his waist. Staring fixedly elsewhere, he said, “You are a mighty warrior, Lod, and you are Elohim’s blade. But I think you care more about defeating the Nephilim and Gog than in freeing Tamar.”

  A troubled look crept upon Lod’s harsh features. “You climbed into the Temple of Gog. But I don’t believe you’ll be able to slip into the stockade in the same way. Terrible beasts guard it.”

  “Giant rats swarmed around Gog’s Acropolis,” Keros said. “Why should this be any different?”

  “You are a rare warrior, my friend. Your feat was extraordinary. Without you, I would have never made it this far.”

  “No. You’re Lod. You would have found a way.” Keros faced him, and anguish filled his youthful face. “I’m begging you. Help me free Tamar.”

  The look, it tore at Lod’s heart. The plea—then Lod understood what occurred. His mouth tightened into a line as a feeling of awe touched him. “Elohim speaks through you,” Lod whispered. “Yes. We will free Tamar.”

  “You have a plan?”

  Lod scowled. He had no plan. He—wait…Ut had used Tamar before as bait, demanding that he surrender himself for her. They wanted him as a prisoner. Might Gog have given the order? Yes, he should have seen it before. Surely, Gog wanted him back in Shamgar for reasons of vengeance. The god of Shamgar had likely charged the expedition with the mission of capturing the servant of Elohim. How could he use that against the evil ones?

  “I used a stench before to drive off the rats around the Acropolis,” Keros said.

  “Stenches won’t help us here.”

  “Could we dig deadfalls and lure beasts into them?” Keros asked.

  Lod laughed savagely, seeing it now, and he patted his sword. “No digging, my friend. This time, I shall knock on their gate, and in their rage, they shall give us Tamar.”

  “What does that mean?” Keros asked.

  The over-muscled Seraph with his wild white hair and beard grinned harshly. “It is time we went to war and taught these Gog-lovers what it means to offend Elohim. Come, you will need some sturdy vines. Then we must study the fort and decide on the perfect time.”

  “What are you talking about?” Keros asked.

  Lod strode toward the jungle, motioning for the mountain warrior to follow him.

  ***

  A day after slaying the bonesetter possessed with Chemosh’s spirit, Ut was in Dagon’s tent. He dared sit in his grandfather’s wooden throne. The cave hyenas rested nearby on the rugs. One of them whined in its sleep.

  By the light of a flickering brass lamp, Ut deciphered his grandfather’s script. The Eagle Master’s bird had brought the missive. After dropping the iron tube in the stockade, the golden eagle had screeched and whirled back in the direction it had come, no doubt returning to its master.

  Ut held the papyrus found rolled tight in the iron tube. He held the missive in his mummy-wrapped fingers. His diseased lips moved silently as his eyes picked over the hieroglyphics. This was olden writing, seldom used these days.

  Ut scowled, shaking his head. It had been an ugly day. The reavers had moved sullenly to his orders. It seemed they didn’t really believe him about the dark spirit. Some had overhead the bonesetter claiming to be Chemosh. As harsh and overbearing as his father had been in life, more of the reavers had liked him than they’d liked the cannibal, as the men often referred to Ut.

  Oh, Ut knew what men said. He had keen hearing and often heard their whispers. That meant some of the reavers would tell Dagon their version of the story. What would Dagon do to him?

  Ut’s scowl deepened, and he knew growing fear. He hoped these coastal Rovians would hand Dagon a bitter defeat. Even better, he hoped a huge warband had marched and that they’d slain his grandfather for him.

  Now Ut read the missive written in Dagon’s hand. The hieroglyphics told the story of the Battle in the Reeds. Radek of Orns and the Eagle Master had scouted the enemy with their beasts. Then Dagon had led the reavers in an ambush. With his giant scimitar and shield, and with his greater size and terrible strength, Dagon had slaughtered coastal Rovians. It had been a rout, red butchery of the primitives. Now Dagon marched back to the fort. The papyrus message ended with an order.

  Prepare the galley for travel.

  Ut rolled the missive and inserted it back into its iron tube. What would the reavers tell Dagon? How would Dagon respond to the truth of Chemosh’s demise?

  The tent flap swung open, revealing the last light of dusk as Nyla stepped within.

  Ut struck the arm of the wooden throne. He’d given orders that none disturb him. Now this woman, this fifth generation freak, dared enter his presence. She controlled the great beast, but she used theltocarna to achieve the feat. She was arrogant and acted much too lordly. It would feel good to put her in her place. She was so pretty, so healthy and sinuous. Hmmm….

  “This had better be important,” Ut said.

  Nyla stopped short, and she let her lips twist into a sneer. That was infuriating to Ut.

  “Is it wise to sit in Dagon’s chair?” she asked.

  Ut almost exploded with fury. How dare she speak such words to him? He’d slain Chemosh the Shaman. She should grovel on her belly before him. She should beg for his conquering touch.

  Ut shook the iron tube. “Dagon is victorious. He returns to camp. He demands that the galley be ready for sail.”

  “Will you make the Rovians work all night?” she asked.

  “You were given charge of the galley,” he said. “I am to defend the fort.”

  “You were given all authority,” she said. “Are you now trying to abdicate that authority?”

  “You dare speak to me in this fashion?” Ut said. The hyenas perked up, lifting their blocky heads, eying the woman.

  “Should I whistle for my bear?” she asked.

  “Is that a threat?”

  Nyla glanced at the hyenas and then studied him. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “You are wise,” said Ut.

  Nyla dipped her head.

  Ut almost laughed. She lacked will power. Or maybe she finally realized whom she addressed. He’d slain Chemosh the Shaman. That was a fine feat of cunning and cannibalistic magic. She was right to retract her arro
gance.

  “Is there a reason why you’ve entered my presence?” Ut asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve spoken with a reaver who claimed he spotted Lod. The reaver gathered melons when he spied the Seraph slipping through the jungle.”

  “I’ve no doubt the white-haired gnat lurks in the forest,” Ut said. “Why didn’t the reaver kill Lod? The man should be punished for his failure.”

  “Dagon wishes Lod to be captured.”

  “Gog wishes him to be captured,” Ut said, correcting the woman.

  Nyla hesitated and then said: “The reaver feared Lod. Beside, if he’d killed the Seraph, Gog would have flayed the man alive.”

  “You’ve made your point,” Ut said. He found her most irritating. “We must capture Lod, not kill him. Tomorrow—”

  “When will Dagon arrive?” Nyla asked.

  Ut stared at her. “My grandfather will likely be here in two days.” With his fist, Ut tapped the arm of the throne as he made some quick calculations. “You will gather torches and light them. You will also build bonfires. Then you will work the Rovians tonight and all of tomorrow. The galley must be ready for Dagon’s arrival.”

  “As you say,” Nyla whispered. She turned to go.

  “Wait,” said Ut. “I have a question for you.”

  She regarded him.

  “What will you tell Dagon occurred yesterday?”

  “Do you mean the bonesetter’s death?”

  Ut swallowed a retort. She knew very well what he meant.

  “You slew a possessed man,” Nyla said.

  “And?” Ut prompted.

  “The evil spirit in the bonesetter made boasts.”

  Ut frowned.

  “Some of the reavers claim they heard the bonesetter to be Chemosh the Shaman,” Nyla added.

  “What will you say?” asked Ut.

  “Is there something you wish for me to say, or not say?” she asked.

  Ut stared at her, and once more, she dropped her gaze. “Remember who I am,” he said, “and the power I wield.”

  “I will remember,” she said.

  Ut was uncertain if he should say more. Then a horn blared outside. It sounded as if it blasted from upon the ramparts.

  “Lod!” a man shouted. “It’s Lod!”

  Nyla moved fast, whirling around and dashing out of the tent. A second later, Ut jumped up and grabbed his cane. Then he shuffled for the entrance, with his cave hyenas slinking behind him.

  ***

  Lod stood in the open, with the jungle trees behind him. Two hundred paces away stood the stockade. Trampled ground and great stumps were between him and the fort. Lod cupped his hands as he shouted:

  “In the name of Elohim, I command you to depart these lands!”

  More reavers gathered on the ramparts of the stockade. They pointed at him. One brigand hurled a javelin. It failed to make it halfway across the open space. Another fitted an arrow to a bow and let fly. The arrow arched high, and it had the distance.

  Lod watched the arrow, and he judged its flight. Then he pointedly ignored the arrow as it thudded into the ground several feet to his left and before him. It was a good shot, but he had little to worry about at this distance.

  “If you disobey Him Most High,” Lod roared, “you shall all die!”

  He heard angry shouts in return, and he saw the fort’s gate swing open, although he could only see the front part of the gate.

  Lod drew his sword, and he shook it at those on the rampart. Then he shouted a war cry, certain that would goad the reavers. Dagon was gone, and the encampment seemed woefully short of soldiers. Likely, the Nephilim and soldiers were away somewhere doing evil. He hoped Keros was ready.

  Over the treetops to the west, the sun had already disappeared. It would be night soon. Ah, he saw dark blurs against the stockade. Those were hyenas. The beasts were likely trying to surprise him.

  Lod rammed the short sword into its scabbard. Then he whirled around and darted into the jungle. The chase was on.

  ***

  Keros crawled on the opposite side of the stockade from Lod. The sinewy mountain warrior slithered with care. He used clumps of reeds, shadows and the darker grasses.

  His stomach churned with fear and his heart beat with excitement. This was a raid worthy of old One-Eye and his grandfather. A coil of vine was wound around his chest and his face was smeared with mud. Tonight, he would free Tamar. Lod and he lacked scented materials, so they used a raider’s trick. By the shouts, it sounded as if the warriors in camp gave chase. They wanted Lod. Now they had a chance to capture him.

  Keros crawled closer to the dark fort. Dusk was turning into night. Stars had appeared, and as the minutes passed, more became visible. Soon, Keros lay beside the stockade’s outer base. He’d been watching the rampart. No soldier of Shamgar walked there, or if they did, they’d not moved for some time.

  Slowly, Keros shrugged off the coil of vine. With a deep breath, Keros stood. He swung the vine’s loop and threw it up fifteen feet. With the first cast, it landed on a log’s crudely hacked point. Keros tugged. The loop held. He began to climb, using knots that he’d carefully tied into the vine several hours earlier. He winced each time his bare foot scraped off bark or he bumped too hard against wood. Then he scrambled over the top and peered into the Nephilim camp.

  Several fires burned down there. The fires cast lurid light and made dancing shadows. Tents were everywhere, along with animal corrals and slave cages. Despite that, the camp felt empty.

  Keros stood boldly on the rampart, noting movement, the placement of ladders, guards and beasts. By the gate, he spied the great bear as it sat on its haunches. Sight of the beast almost stole his courage. Then he saw Tamar. He’d know that face anywhere. She peeked out of a tent, glancing about.

  That was enough for Keros. He headed for the nearest ladder that led down into the stockade.

  ***

  Nyla seethed with anger against Ut. The arrogant beastmaster had acted as if he was the god or the god’s son. He’d actually sat in Dagon’s throne. Then Ut had spoken to her as if he could do her harm. It had been galling, and she’d wanted to plant a dagger in his heart.

  Instead, she’d been cautious and had acted the part of a contrite, frightened woman. She was an assassin, after all, not some vainglorious warrior with a fragile ego. She’d realized that Ut might have been insane enough to order his hyenas to attack her. There had also been the possibility of a magical attack.

  Gog was of the first generation. Dagon was of the second, and Chemosh had been of the third. First Born, Nephilim and half-Nephilim, each of the generations possessed an accursed gift unique to each of them. The fourth and fifth generations were not so gifted. Yet now it appeared that Ut could practice magic. In some nefarious manner, he’d kept the spirit of Chemosh from infesting a new body.

  That made Ut dangerous. Thus, she had treaded lightly in the tent. Now she seethed with hatred against Ut. He’d been arrogant toward her. She sensed that he would try to fix the blame for Chemosh’s death on another, maybe even on her. Who would Dagon believe, Ut his grandson or she from a different bloodline?

  Nyla stalked through the stockade, with a curved dagger in her fist. Ut had given chase after Lod, as had most of the remaining reavers. It meant the fort was nearly empty of those of Shamgar. The great bear guarded the gate. Now she searched for Rovians, having already locked away ten woman.

  Ut must believe he needed Lod’s capture to help calm Dagon’s possible rage.

  Nyla smirked to herself. Lod had appeared outside the fort for a reason. Not even Lod would simply challenge those in the fort without some other nefarious goal in mind.

  It was then Nyla saw a warrior leading a Rovian maiden by the hand. They slunk between tented lanes. No! The warrior led Tamar by the hand. Tamar wore Rovian garments, suitable for forest travel. Oh, this all made sense now. Lod had shown himself to draw off the guards so this strange warrior could slip inside the stockade. It was an elementary tact
ic, but those were often the best.

  What would it mean to Ut if Tamar escaped while he raced through the jungle at night, trying but failing to capture Lod? Would Dagon listen to Ut then?

  Nyla doubted it.

  She hissed a moment later. The warrior and Tamar glided silently toward a ladder leading up to a rampart. One of the red-garbed Rovian turncoats had spotted the two. Silently, that one raced after them. That one held a dagger, and he ran lightly, with urgency. Why didn’t he sound the alarm?

  Nyla didn’t why. She too broke into a run. The turncoat ran fast. The warrior and Tamar refused to look around and thus didn’t spy him. They were too intent on the ladder, an elementary mistake.

  Nyla made a quick decision. Ut’s arrogance in the tent was the critical factor. She no longer trusted him, and he had made threats. No one threatened her with impunity. Nyla threw her dagger. It flashed in the darkness, and it sank into the turncoat’s back. He cried out, pitching forward.

  The warrior holding Tamar’s hand and Tamar turned around in shock.

  The turncoat Rovian cried out, and he twisted as he hit the dirt. Firelight gleamed across his ravaged face. He was Eber. He was the Rovian warrior Nyla had captured ten days ago and brought to Dagon.

  “Eber!” cried Tamar. She tried to go to the injured turncoat as he twisted on the ground.

  The warrior holding her hand tugged her, refusing to let her go. In the darkness, he pointed at Nyla. The warrior had good night vision, Nyla realized, almost as good as hers.

  “Hurry,” the warrior said, and he dragged Tamar toward the ladder.

  Nyla realized then that Eber must have aided the two, not rushed to kill them. Eber had turned traitor twice. She grinned, deciding to tell Dagon that, showing how extraordinarily alert she’d been. Let Ut show something of equal value to the Nephilim.

  The strange warrior scrambled up the ladder, and so did Tamar. Nyla judged the distance to the nearest reaver, a man with a spear searching for stray Rovians. Nyla gave the two another several seconds. Then she began to yell, “Dagon’s prize is escaping! Sound the alarm! Sound the alarm!”

  The two on the rampart whipped around, staring at her. Then the young warrior motioned to Tamar and helped her climb over the top. Surely, a rope hung there outside the fort.