Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Joash dropped to his knees, running his fingers through the lion-colored hair. The big dog licked his face, as Harn flopped down and thumped his heavy tail against the tented ground. Joash took the wedge-shaped head and hugged it to his chest. Then, he examined the stitches where a sabertooth had cruelly opened Harn’s side.

  “How—”

  “Never mind the quick healing,” Zillith said.

  Joash looked at her strangely.

  “It isn’t magic like the Nephilim practice,” she assured him. “But, some of us are not without hidden abilities.”

  Undoubtedly, she meant Seraphs, which was a topic Joash wasn’t ready to think about yet.

  Soon, Zillith brewed tea, and Joash sat cross-legged in the tent, with a hand on Harn. Before he was aware of it, Joash found himself telling her everything about the journey to Draugr’s Crypt and back. Well, he kept a few things to himself, such as kissing Adah. A man shouldn’t talk about that.

  The wise Mother Protectress listened in a way that made it seem she heard more than he said. She uncorked a jar, and handed it to him. He took a pickle and devoured it. She gave him a small loaf of bread, and he devoured that as well.

  As Joash wiped his hands, he asked, “How’s Nestor?”

  Zillith shook her head, and said softly, “He never escaped the camp. I’m sorry, Joash.”

  Cold grief washed over Joash, as he bowed his head. He felt sick inside, the food like lead. The giants, and their sabertooth allies, had slaughtered those at Hori Cove. If they remained at this sandbar too long, the same thing would happen to them. Nestor—the groom had trained him in countless ways. Joash couldn’t believe he was dead. First Ard, now Nestor, it was too much. Joash wished he’d never come to Jotunheim. He wished he’d never seen a giant, or even heard about the First Born, Tarag. Joash wished he could pluck the heart from every giant. He had so wanted to tell Nestor about the bin of gems, and the stone trolocks frozen before their grim lich of a dead master. Now, he’d never hear Nestor laugh, or shout angrily at his stupid mistakes.

  “How long does Lord Uriah plan to stay at this death camp?” Joash asked, hollowly.

  “Until Lod comes,” Zillith said.

  Joash had heard that name before. Adah couldn’t talk enough about him. What was so unusual about Lod that made him the leader of Seraphs?

  “I’m surprised you haven’t given me any advice about Seraph matters,” Joash muttered.

  Zillith ignored his bitter mood. She said crisply, “First, we must all talk.”

  Joash scowled. He hated cryptic comments, now more than ever. “Who is all?”

  “The Seraphs,” she said.

  A chill squeezed Joash’s spine. He wanted nothing to do with giants, and man-slaying sabertooths. Did she already think of him as a Seraph? Adah had told him he had to accept the charge. Maybe he had done well in Draugr’s Crypt, but he wanted no more adventures like that. He never wanted to lose so many friends in one day again.

  “We must consider Tarag’s actions, and what it bodes,” Zillith was saying. “The First Born are cunning, as you’ve learned. Their moves always mean something terrible. Lord Uriah, and more so his people, have paid heavily for the knowledge we now possess. That knowledge must be put to use, otherwise, too many people will have perished in vain.” Her fine old wrinkled face tightened. Something deadly shone in her eyes then. “That must not be. No, by Elohim, it must not.”

  Joash was sick of hearing about First Born, Nephilim or Seraphs. He wanted to drive out the memory of the giants, the sabertooths and the bloody beach. He never wanted to see anything like it again.

  “Can I take Harn with me?” He needed fresh air, and he wanted to talk with Adah—as soon as she returned from her patrol.

  “Harn survived, and so have you. Herrek gave his word about the outcome of such an event. You now own Harn.”

  Joash grinned tiredly.

  “Where is your spear?” Zillith asked. “You’re a groom now. As you’ve stated, our position here is a dangerous one. We’ve lost too many warriors and grooms. None must shirk their duty. As a groom, you’re supposed to go armed.”

  Joash massaged his forehead. Didn’t Zillith know about Gaut Windrunner, how on the beach Herrek had slain the giant with his, Joash’s, spear. Speaking slowly, almost painfully, Joash told her until she was called away to re-examine a wounded man.

  ***

  Lean Gens, the chariot-driver with his outrageous mustache, walked by Joash as the sun sank into the horizon.

  Joash gloomily sharpened his dagger as he sat on a leather-wrapped bundle. Harn slept at his feet. Joash had hailed Adah earlier as she returned from patrol. She had turned away, and her longboat had soon bumped against the huge Tiras. Joash had run to the longboats that were pulled onto the sandbar. He’d tried to talk several sailors into rowing him to the ship. Then Lord Uriah had jumped out of his longboat and waded to them. The white-bearded Patriarch had pulled him aside, and relayed a message: Adah wanted to be alone to think.

  “Think?” Joash had asked. “What—”

  “Give her time,” Lord Uriah had said. Then the Patriarch had walked away before Joash could belabor him with questions.

  Since then, Joash had found this spot on the leather-wrapped bundle, and sharpened his dagger to a razor’s edge.

  Now, Gens motioned. Lean Gens, with a drooping mustache, and thickly muscled forearms, was the greatest chariot-driver in Teman Clan. The driver motioned with his head for Joash to join him.

  Indifferently, Joash slid off the bundles, and slouched to Gens.

  “Herrek wishes to speak with you,” Gens said.

  “Is he well?” Joash asked. A rock-chip had flown off a giant-thrown boulder and clipped Herrek in the neck during the boat ride to the Tiras. There had been blood everywhere.

  “Like warrior, like groom,” Gens said. “Over there, go see him.”

  Joash shuffled his feet to the end of the sandbar, where the side of a small tent rippled in the breeze. Tall, red-haired Herrek sat against a water barrel, with fresh bandages on his neck. The warrior dug his hand into the sand, and let the fine white particles dribble between his thick fingers. Herrek wore leather bracers around his wrists, each laced tight with leather cords. He was Teman Clan’s greatest swordsman, the Champion.

  “Warrior,” Joash said.

  Herrek turned with a grimace, and smiled sourly. He had a warrior’s features, and piercing green eyes. There were barely scabbed cuts on his face, but nothing he would consider serious.

  “Join me,” Herrek said.

  Joash sat cross-legged on sand. The setting sun put red streaks in the sky. Joash couldn’t decide if it was beautiful, or a bleak reminder of what awaited them if the giants made it here.

  “Eat,” Herrek said, who motioned to the crabmeat and tea. Joash ate sparingly. Herrek seemed content to wait.

  “How’s the neck?” Joash asked, as he sipped tea.

  “I ache everywhere,” Herrek said, “but I’ve slept much.” His features hardened. “Too many good warriors have died in these forsaken barrens. Now, I want to know Lord Uriah’s true reasons for coming.”

  Joash nodded, uncertain what Herrek wanted him to say.

  The tall warrior regarded him. “You’ve done well these last few days.”

  Joash mumbled a reply.

  Herrek stared toward the distant Kragehul Steppes. “You did especially well on the beach against the giants.”

  A lump rose in Joash’s throat.

  “Your quick thinking saved lives,” Herrek said.

  Joash wasn’t used to praise like this. He basked in it, and felt guilty at the death of better men than he was.

  “I thank you for saving my life,” Herrek said.

  Joash’s face felt red-hot as he mumbled words.

  “Many brave men died on the beach,” Herrek said. “Othniel, Emmal, Karim—” The warrior’s features became grimly stern. “You, Groom, acted as a warrior does. I heard how you drew a knife on the sailors
to make them rescue us. That was nobly done. Yes, you forced others to act like men, a captain’s action. Your courage, and quick thinking, gave me the chance to save Elonites, and to slay the hated foeman.”

  “You are the Giant-Slayer,” Joash whispered.

  Herrek’s eyes seemed to shine. “Gaut Windrunner stood deep in the water, and the wave splashed salt in his eyes.” A fierce grin twisted Herrek’s mouth. “If only I’d slain more.”

  “There were too many.”

  “If only I’d slain the ones in the crypt,” Herrek said, as if he hadn’t heard Joash. He took a deep breath, and regarded his groom. The warrior held out his big hand. Joash took it. They shook as Herrek clapped Joash on the shoulder.

  “As I promised in the crypt,” Herrek said, “I will begin to teach you the sword. You’ve earned it.”

  “Thank you, Warrior.”

  Herrek rose stiffly. Joash jumped up.

  Lord Uriah strode toward them, his white cloak billowing in the breeze. One of his big hands clutched his sword pommel. As usual, an ale odor hung about him. Lord Uriah was over five hundred years old. He had a close-cropped white beard and rugged features.

  Lord Uriah asked briskly, “Are your wounds painful?”

  Herrek shrugged.

  “Ah, Warrior, you’re too proud.”

  Herrek said nothing.

  Lord Uriah told Joash, “You look stiff, too, Groom, just like your lord. And now, you wish to learn the sword, eh? Is that what I heard?”

  “Yes, Lord,” Joash said, surprised that Lord Uriah could hear so well.

  Lord Uriah nodded. “You will accompany me to the Tiras.”

  “Should I join you as well, Lord?” Herrek asked.

  “No, just Joash,” Lord Uriah said.

  Herrek’s handsome features stiffened.

  Lord Uriah must have noticed, for he waited.

  “I know, Lord,” Herrek began, “that issues of great importance lay before us. Adah, a lore master as well as a singer, helped us on our quest to the crypt. She gave us information that I’m surprised you failed to tell us. Then, there is the matter of my own groom, how he happened to show critical hidden abilities. As I’ve pondered these things, my conclusion is that none of this just happened.” A tight smile curved Herrek’s lips. “Our ancient foes gather terrible weapons from the past. I am no longer content to remain ignorant, to act as your bodyguard, and no more. Tarag treated me as if I was a child. Giants have mocked me, and slain my comrades. Now, I demand to know what is being done to thwart these evil children of the Accursed.”

  “You demand?” Lord Uriah asked, slowly, showing that perhaps he’d drunk too much ale.

  “I demand,” Herrek said.

  “You have no right.”

  “I marched to the crypt. Even more, I slew a giant. I have more than a right.”

  “You do not understand what you ask of me,” Lord Uriah said.

  “I do not ask,” Herrek said.

  “…You speak like an arrogant man, my grandson, like one who overly trusts his spear-arm. That is how the Nephilim live.”

  “It is wrong to cheat the workman of his wages,” Herrek quoted.

  Lord Uriah scratched his beard. “The First Born move openly...” He shrugged. “Come then. The Seraphs meet aboard the Tiras.”

  Chapter Three

  War Council

  Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisers they succeed.

  -- Proverbs 15:22

  Past a door in the Tiras’s stern deck, through a narrow corridor, and another door, was Captain Maharbal’s cabin. Two portholes, fixed with precious Kenan glass, admitted twinkling starlight to shine into the cabin. A narrow bed, with four redwood posts attached to the ceiling and floor, occupied a good third of the cabin. Costly red curtains hid the bed itself. A high but tiny table had been built into the wall, with a tall stool pegged beside it. A tack-on chart lay on the table, while below the tabletop, were rows of circular cubicles. Each was stopped by colored glass, and each held a scroll or map.

  The packed cabin contained a mixture of smells, from Zillith’s rose perfume, to the tar stench that pervaded the entire ship. Their table was Captain Maharbal’s oaken sea chest. He had laid a white cloth over it, and placed a beaker of Kedesh ale, several stone mugs, dishes of pickled apples and sea mints on it. Everyone sat on low stools.

  The Captain was a stout merchant of Further Tarsh, wore red boots, robe and turban. A purple sash denoted his princely station, the curved dagger thrust through it, his militancy and the curly, oiled beard gave him an air of command. Two golden earrings clashed in his right ear, an indication of his wealth.

  “We may speak freely,” Captain Maharbal said. “The deckhouse is empty, as the free fighters patrol the waters. My sailors are occupied with tasks that will keep them out of this area of the ship.”

  Bleary-eyed Lord Uriah clunked his mug onto the sea chest. “This is an unusual setting, but it will suit our purpose. Too many here don’t know the entire situation. It’s time to fill those gaps.”

  “Or, do you mean that certain cat’s-paws will now learn why you sent them into horrible danger?” Zillith asked, in a polite, but icy tone.

  “We must not let our emotions color the truth,” Lord Uriah said.

  Zillith arched her eyebrows.

  “The truth is the First Born and Nephilim move openly,” Lord Uriah said. “Their secret maneuvers for power seems to have ended. I think agreements were made, and pacts sealed. Also, the Jogli Nomads prepare for war, gathering chariots. We know a First Born sits with the khans, and discusses strategy.”

  “Can this be true?” Captain Maharbal asked.

  “Enoch slipped onto Jogli sacred ground, and spied Tiglath conversing with the khan of the Red Knives and Iron Lances,” Lord Uriah said. “Iddo, Caphtor and Larak, are all possible targets for the Jogli. Or, consider the fiends. Soldiers of Shurrupak spotted several in mountainous Arkite Land. Several Arkite clans have faced the fiends in battle. According to the soldiers, Gog directs the fiends from depraved Shamgar. Galleys from Poseidonis have sailed into the Ammon Gulf, captured Iribos, and raided Larak and Eridu. Yorgash’s Gibborim have even sailed up the Phlegeton River to raid Shurrupak. To the west, Lemuria stirs. The rulers there perform rites that once only Nephilim dared practice.”

  “Lod spoke similarly,” Captain Maharbal said, regarding those around the table. “He told me the old days return, of the bloody knife and splintered shield.” The merchant prince paused thoughtfully. “The First Born plan mighty deeds, or so Lod thinks. They seek as their fathers once did, to rule as gods.”

  “Yorgash rules like a god in Poseidonis,” Adah said. “Anyone who does not bow to his golden image is cast into a fiery furnace. If Gibborim dare the open ocean, and raid Shurrupak, then few of my people remain in Poseidonis.”

  “You are confusing Joash and Herrek,” Zillith told the others.

  “Are we, lads?” asked Lord Uriah.

  Herrek shrugged.

  Joash didn’t care to stand between Zillith and Lord Uriah, nor did he have the Champion’s calm confidence to say nothing. He, therefore, said what was foremost on his mind. “I am not yet a Seraph. I am not sure I should be at this meeting.”

  Lord Uriah waved that aside.

  Captain Maharbal glanced sharply at Lord Uriah, which caused the Captain’s earrings to clash.

  “He acted the part of a Seraph,” Adah said. “Aren’t deeds more important than words?” She was small, dark-skinned and beautiful. She wore a blue cloak, with yellow designs of starfish and flowers. Hanging from a peg on the cabin wall, were her bow and a quiver of parrot-feathered arrows. Joash had kissed her during their quest to Draugr’s Crypt. Now, she ignored him.

  “What about Naram’s prophesies?” Captain Maharbal asked. “Mere words, no? But, from those important words, we’ve learned much. Lod himself is gone because of those precious words.”

  “Who’s Naram?” Joash asked. The name sounded familiar, but h
e couldn’t place it.

  Zillith said, “Naram of Caphtor was the greatest prophet of our age. In his own way he was as great as Asvarn.”

  Joash knew of Asvarn the Prophet, who didn’t? He’d foretold the coming of the Shining Ones. Certain other prophecies were attributed to Asvarn. Few today paid them heed, except for the secretive Seraphs.

  Zillith continued. “Naram of Caphtor foretold the coming of Gog to Shamgar, and the creation of the Order of the Oracle. Because of the foretelling, the merchant-captains of Further Tarsh were ready for the predatory attacks that spawned out of Shamgar. Naram also foretold Yorgash’s victory in Poseidonis. Therefore, Lod gathered ships, sailed to the wretched isle and saved Adah. But, the direst prophecies came on Naram’s deathbed. He foretold the strange gathering of First Born, and that they planned evil, although Naram couldn’t see what the evil was. He said, however, we must halt this evil, or the Earth would face its gravest peril. ‘In the North,’ Naram told us, ‘is the answer.’ Soon thereafter, Naram of Caphtor died.”

  “Lod was at Naram’s deathbed,” Captain Maharbal said. “What is more, Naram whispered his very last words into Lod’s ear. Lod has never spoken of this until he confided in me a month ago. Naram the Prophet said, ‘In Shamgar will be Irad. When all else baffles you, find Irad and ask him what he saw.’”

  “Who is Irad?” Lord Uriah asked crossly.

  “Lod has gone to find out,” Captain Maharbal said.

  “He should not have gone into Shamgar alone,” Zillith said. “It will prove his undoing.”

  The information bewildered Joash. He glanced at Herrek. The powerful Champion said nothing, nor did his face betray his thoughts. The Champion listened, as he fiddled with the straps on his wrist bracer.

  “How long do you plan to wait here for Lod?” Adah asked.

  Lord Uriah moodily shook his head.

  Joash became more alert, and almost said it was madness to stay.

  “What we should be asking,” Zillith said, “is why Tarag went to Draugr’s Crypt. Obviously, he wanted the adamant armor, helmet, shield and sword. We’ve paid dearly for the information. Now we must decipher it.”