Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Captain Maharbal glared at Auroch. Slowly, however, he slipped the dagger back under his sash. After a long pause, he nodded. “Take Auroch below to a hammock. Let him sleep. After he has slept, we will feast him and treat him as a friend.” Captain Maharbal clenched his teeth, and half-turned away, and then he forced himself to look at Auroch. “I cannot give you the hug of friendship,” he said. “However, you are my guest as long as you remain here. If, though, you misuse your status among us, then you’ll be slain like a wild dog. We will then throw your corpse into the sea for the fish to feast on.”

  “Thank you,” the exhausted Auroch said, half-mockingly, and half with relief. He followed several of Lord Uriah’s warriors below.

  Captain Maharbal whispered to the first mate and to the boatswain. The officers nodded in agreement. Then they selected a few beefy sailors and left.

  Captain Maharbal said to Lord Uriah’s questioning glance, “They will be his guards, not his slayers. I’ll admit, however, that it’s an order I’d dearly love to give.”

  Lord Uriah said, “I suspect that only such a man as Auroch could have made the journey past Gog’s fleet, and then here to Gandvik Rock.”

  Maharbal made a vague gesture of dismissal.

  “Do you belittle his feat?”

  Captain Maharbal adjusted his red robe before saying, “Auroch is bold. He’s rash to the point of madness. That gives him certain strengths, and an ability to do the impossible. I do not belittle his feat. Instead, I begrudgingly give him praise. His actions are always self-centered. He has attempted to escape Gog, but who wouldn’t wish to flee a First Born? I’ve listened to Adah’s tales. A kingdom ruled by First Born has little room for men. In such a kingdom, men are cattle to be used by those with accursed blood. Of course, Auroch would dare any feat to escape such a fate. Who wouldn’t?”

  “Are we then also to be despised?” Lord Uriah asked, with mock severity.

  Captain Maharbal frowned.

  “We attempt many dangerous feats, all in the hope of escaping a world ruled by First Born.”

  “But...” Captain Maharbal tugged at his beard. He scowled. “Many are those who bend their head to the First Born, who lose their spirit to fight...” His scowl deepened. “Bah! You’ve confused the issue.”

  Lord Uriah clapped Maharbal’s arm. “My only point is this. As the First Born rise again and move openly, let us not spurn any allies we can gain. We must bury painful memories, and accept even rogues and pirates, if they will fight with us against the First Born.”

  “What you suggest is difficult to accept.”

  The sailors who listened nodded in agreement, as did Joash.

  “Maybe it is difficult,” Lord Uriah said, “but in the end, Auroch brought us Irad. Now, we must pray that Zillith is able to heal him so he can tell us his tale.”

  ***

  “How can Captain Maharbal think that Nidhogg is just a myth?” Herrek asked the next morning. “This place reeks of evil and hidden watchers.”

  Gens and Joash nodded in agreement. They ate old, crusty bread and stale chunks of cheese. A particularly thick fog had drifted around the ship. From their spot near the railing, none of them could see the cabin, or the forecastle in the opposite direction. Muted sounds of speaking people, creaking timbers and the barefoot slap of walking sailors came through the fog. From time to time, a man wrapped in a cloak, or a woman with a shawl tightly bound over her head, would appear and disappear again into the fog. Their faces dripped with cold condensation.

  Joash dried his face with a rag, and finished off his cheese, washing it down with a swallow of stale water. When he’d gone to the ship’s kitchen this morning for their ration of food, he’d overheard the Captain talking with the first mate. They had water for several more days. Then, they’d have to leave Gandvik Rock, and sail for the city of Carthalo.

  “Do you think we’ll wait any longer for Lod?” Joash asked.

  “If Irad talks, or doesn’t, we’ll still be forced to leave,” Herrek said.

  “I suppose you think Irad spoke to Lod about his secret knowledge?”

  “It seems reasonable,” Herrek said. He peered at the water.

  Gens and Joash cocked their heads. Joash heard the soft lap of water on barnacled wood. Many sailors had stripped down before, and taken their scrapers to the hull. Captain Maharbal kept the sailors busy with various chores. The chore the sailors grumbled about the most was swimming underwater and scraping barnacles off the hull. It was difficult, cold work, and here in Gandvik harbor, with its inky water, each sailor said a prayer before holding his breath and diving down.

  “What do you hear?” whispered Gens.

  Herrek peered into the fog. Because of Auroch, he’d taken to wearing his chainmail again, even though falling overboard with it would ensure him a drowning death. His sodden red cloak looked more like a wet blanket than a warrior’s badge.

  Gens thoughtfully sucked moisture from his thick mustache. “Do you think Auroch has nearby allies?”

  Herrek gave his driver a feral grin.

  “What do you mean?” Joash asked.

  “Maybe Auroch went to Gog and gave him Irad,” Herrek said. “Maybe Gog then instructed Auroch to come here with an Arkite to trick us.”

  “But, Zillith said the Arkite was Irad,” Joash said. “She prayed to Elohim for guidance.”

  “True enough,” Herrek said. “But even a Mother Protectress can make mistakes.”

  “Why would Gog send us Auroch, and a fake Irad?” Joash asked.

  “Lord Uriah has spoken to us about the cunning of First Born,” Herrek said. “I don’t attempt to penetrate their thoughts. But, neither do I accept a pirate’s words because of a single good deed, or a signet ring. And while I trust Zillith in most things—as you yourself know, Joash, one must be very careful with those of Shamgar.”

  Joash nodded grimly.

  “What did you hear?” Gens asked Herrek.

  “I thought I heard the clack of oars,” the Champion said, slowly. “It wasn’t a loud sound.” He shrugged after a moment.

  “Who would dare to row around Gandvik Harbor in this fog?” Joash asked.

  “Enemies,” Herrek said, “hoping to catch us by surprise.”

  A man wearing boots strode across the deck. The sound grew louder. The three of them turned. Out of the fog, walked Lord Uriah. He wore a supple deerskin shirt and pants. They were dry, as was his beard. His eyes were red.

  “Come with me,” Lord Uriah ordered Joash. His voice was hoarse.

  Joash hurried. They entered Zillith’s warm room. A bronze brazier containing coals stood in the center of the room. Lit lanterns were at each corner. The smell of flowers was overpowering. Mixed in with this was a pine-needle scent and the sharp aroma of the southern luxury of coffee. Zillith sat on a stool beside the bed. She wore a yellow shawl. Her old face shone with perspiration, and her eyes seemed too keen, too intent, as if she attempted a task that was beyond her.

  “Joash is here,” Lord Uriah said, softly.

  Joash thought that an odd comment. Zillith looked right at him. Then, he saw Zillith blink, shake her head and look at him for the first time. She hadn’t seen him until Lord Uriah had spoken.

  “Joash,” she whispered.

  He was alarmed at her voice. She was exhausted. He stared at Irad. The man looked old. He had short dark hair, wrinkled skin and a sunken look to his closed eyes. A woolen blanket covered him. His arms lay over it. His arms were wiry, his hands knotted with old scars and protruding knuckles. Joash felt a strange affinity for the man.

  “Irad is dying,” Zillith whispered. “There’s nothing I can do to save him.”

  “Dying?” Joash asked in alarm. “But, he must tell us what he knows!”

  “So we’ve prayed,” Lord Uriah said. “And so Zillith has diligently worked. By her skills, and by Elohim’s grace, Irad yet lingers. His wounds are terrible. His back is a mass of whip-scars. Irad the Arkite has been badly used for a long time. De
ath is no doubt a welcome release.”

  “No,” Zillith whispered. “He’s a fighter. My skills are deep, but he should be dead nonetheless. Maybe, only Elohim’s grace keeps him breathing, or maybe Irad refuses to die.”

  Joash saw a necklace of... bear claws around Irad’s neck. The claws were huge, those of a cave bear. Each claw had been carefully drilled, a leather thong strung through them. On the neck of the dying man, the claws seemed monstrous.

  Lord Uriah said, “So you’ve noticed the claws, eh?”

  Joash thought that an odd thing to say in front of a dying man.

  “Irad is an Arkite,” Lord Uriah said. “Do you know anything about Arkite tribesmen?”

  Joash shook his head, wondering why he’d been brought here.

  “They’re flint people of the highland interior,” Lord Uriah said softly. “They respect prowess. They rank one another upon the completion of difficult tasks. Irad doesn’t wear the bear claws because of fashion, or upon a whim. To an Arkite, that would be unthinkable. The ornaments draped on an Arkite tell a story. Not a whimsical story, but a true-life story. The bear claws around his neck came from an animal he himself slew. If others had helped him slay the bear, then he would have been permitted to wear only a single bear claw. That he wears all the bear’s claws, means he slew the cave bear alone, with only a spear or a stone knife. Only an exceedingly brave, resourceful and lucky hunter could have done that. Slaying the bear was probably the most important act in his life.”

  Joash stared at the claws, marveling. The man looked so old and frail. How had he ever accomplished such a mighty feat? Bears could be the oddest creatures, he knew. One moment they were big and clownish, at another they raged with berserk power. The cave bear was the largest of the breed, and when angered, even a sabertooth or an orn would fall before one.

  “Slaying the cave bear was probably Irad’s most important act,” Zillith whispered, “until Elohim called him.”

  “Yes, until then,” Lord Uriah agreed.

  “Why am I here?” Joash asked.

  Zillith glanced at Lord Uriah. Lord Uriah nodded.

  “We need you,” Zillith said.

  “How?”

  Zillith took a deep breath and touched Irad’s hand. Irad stirred. His lips twitched. He mumbled so very quietly that none of them could understand what he said. Zillith bent over him, putting her ear almost upon his lips. In a moment, she looked up.

  “He can still hear us,” Zillith said. “But he’s too weak to speak again. He’s dying.”

  “Does he agree?” Lord Uriah asked.

  Zillith barely gave a nod of assent.

  “Agree to what?” Joash asked, feeling panicky.

  “You have the greatest inner flame amongst us,” Lord Uriah said sternly. “Neither Zillith, nor I, are strong enough to attempt what must be done. Captain Maharbal and Adah are not strong enough. Only you are, Joash.” His voice became quieter, subdued. “Irad hates the enemy. They’ve used him terribly. He knows we desperately need his knowledge. His dreams have been haunted with that for a long time. Lod might be dead, slain in the swamps. It all rests on you, Joash.”

  “How do you know this?” Joash asked.

  “Because Zillith had some strength,” Lord Uriah said, “and attempted what only you, I think, can successfully do. What we attempt will surely slay Irad. But like a man who agrees to hold the only bridge that the enemy can use, so that others may flee and live, so Irad has agreed to our plan.”

  Joash’s throat was dry. He was scared. “What will I attempt?”

  “The Shining Ones of old were said to be able to touch certain men and receive visions of their past actions,” Zillith said. “By the use of certain herbs, and by one whose inner flame is strong...” She gently stroked Irad’s hand. “We... I mean...”

  “What my sister is trying to say, is that the Shining Ones long ago taught the healers this art,” Lord Uriah said. “Zillith is one of the few who still retains this knowledge. You, Joash, if you agree, will ingest an herb and touch Irad’s hand.”

  “Then will I have a vision like the Shining Ones used to have?” Joash asked.

  “So we hope,” said Zillith.

  “You’re the prophet,” Joash told Lord Uriah. “Don’t you have visions like this all the time?”

  Lord Uriah shook his head. “At times, Elohim grants me visions, but this is something entirely different.”

  “Is it dangerous?” Joash asked.

  “Yes,” Zillith whispered. “Very dangerous.” She took his hand. “You’re young, however, and your flame is strong. And the need is great. What is locked in Irad’s dying mind may be our only hope to understanding what the First Born attempt. We must know what that is. Will you dare this?”

  Joash knew this was one of those supreme moments. He nodded.

  Lord Uriah helped his sister to her feet. She heated a spoonful of gray powder over the coals. The powder seemed to burn, then curl in upon itself. Very slowly, almost grain-by-grain, it became sludge-like, and melted into a gooey mass. Zillith sprinkled a pinch of green something onto the spoon. The pinch of green sank into the gooey mass, hissing, giving up tiny wisps of green smoke. Only then did Zillith look up.

  Joash opened his mouth.

  She spooned the hot goo onto his tongue. It tasted syrupy-sweet, and was hard to swallow. It seemed to lodge in the back of his throat. Lord Uriah handed him a flask, and indicated that he should drain it. Joash gratefully did. The liquid burned his throat as it went down, and forced the goo into his stomach. He felt sick, and gagged, as he almost threw it back up.

  “Keep it down,” Zillith told him.

  Joash nodded sickly.

  “Start counting,” Lord Uriah said.

  “Huh?” he asked, his stomach roiling and gurgling.

  “Count to one hundred,” Lord Uriah said.

  Joash frowned severely. “One,” he said.

  “Count to yourself,” Lord Uriah said.

  Joash frowned even harder. In his mind, he counted: two, three, four.... By the time he reached eleven, it was difficult to concentrate. At thirteen, the cabin began to spin. He groaned, and shivered as he became cold. Weird colors exploded before his eyes, and his head felt heavy. His vision blurred. He almost panicked, and his stomach roiled even worse than before. He clutched his stomach, groaning aloud. Then, thankfully, the pain faded, until his stomach was numb. The numbness spread upward.

  Zillith whispered into his ear, “The two of you must clasp hands.”

  Lord Uriah guided Joash’s hands. Zillith held Irad’s limp one. Joash intertwined his fingers with the Arkite’s. The skin was rough and callused. To his amazement, Joash saw Irad’s eyes fly open. Soon, all he could see were those staring eyes. Joash gasped. It seemed that he was falling into an abyss. Suddenly, everything went pitch black.

  An indeterminable amount of time later, light exploded. Joash breathed deeply, and smelled pungent pine air. He looked around, and saw the lovely pine trees of Arkite Land on the mountain-ledge above him. He was Irad the Arkite, and he was about to attempt the greatest feat of his life.

  Chapter Nine

  Fiends

  He placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life.

  -- Genesis 3:24

  The beasts had slain his daughter. Irad had found the bloody remains in a cave. It had been a ghastly sight. The beasts had feasted on his only child. Grief filled Irad, and ate at his belly like worms. He, Irad the Arkite, hunter of the Snow Leopard Tribe, and he who wore a cave bear necklace of claws, steeled his emotions. Then he studied the gory tracks around his daughter’s remains. The manner of his daughter’s death had first made him suspect a cave bear. Her corpse had smashed ribs and skull, splintered bones and sucked-out marrow.

  Irad had at first thought that the poor girl had foolishly tried to find a cave bear, and slay the monster in its lair. His own slaying of a cave bear had been a matter o
f life and death, a chance meeting on a lonely trail. He would never have been foolish enough to search for a cave bear to try to slay it.

  The tracks around his daughter’s remains, however, had not been those of a cave bear.

  Irad the Arkite knew every type of track in these parts: Snow leopard, cave bear, mountain goat, orn, the occasional wolf, and then the host of smaller animals. Of course, sometimes lowlander Nebo dared climb into the highlands in search of a wife to steal, but he knew their tracks too. The Nebo tribe made crude, thin-soled sandals, well enough for grassy fields and soggy swamps, but worthless in mountainous terrain. The tracks in the cave that surrounded the bloody remains of his daughter were not those of Nebo.

  What sort of tracks had those been?

  Irad the Arkite now knelt on one knee. Above him, on a mountain-ledge, was a last stand of pine trees. Their pine-needle scent was strong, and wafted toward him as the wind played through their branches. He ignored the trees, and inspected the tracks. These same tracks had surrounded his daughter’s bloody remains. The track was large, somewhat human-shaped, but with claw marks protruding from the toe marks. That’s what had made him suspect cave bear. He inched his eyes forward. There. He judged the distance between the two tracks. He nodded to himself. Those were the front paws... No. Those were knuckle-marks.

  With his highly trained eyes, and countless years as a tracker, he envisioned what sort of beast had made these tracks. Something vaguely human-shaped, he suspected, with long arms that the beast had used like a baboon to help propel himself. The beast was large and heavy. No doubt, it was also strong and dangerous.

  Carefully, Irad the Arkite studied the pine needles littered around him. Soon, he found other tracks. There were three of these beasts, maybe four.

  Irad squatted on his haunches to think, his spear in one hand, his other on his dagger’s bone hilt. He wore thick-soled sandals made from mammoth-hide, fur pants and a fur jacket. His dagger blade was polished flint, and sheathed in snow leopard skin. The head of his spear was also flint. Once, many years ago, he’d owned an iron sword that he’d gained on a lowland caravan raid. The sword had been lost in the ribs of a Nebo, who had plummeted deep into a mountain gorge. Now a coil of woven root-fiber was wound around Irad's torso, on the end of the rope was a weighted piece of bronze. He used the rope to help him climb difficult cliffs.