Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

Harn raised his head and thumped his tail against Herrek’s leg.

  Joash frowned. Herrek was unconscious and might die. Harn was surely as thirsty as he was. This was more than their survival. Nidhogg might have slain the people in the rowboat. Or, maybe Gog had sent pirates to finish the task. If that was so, who would tell the other Seraphs about the First Born? Maybe he was the only one left with that knowledge. If that was true, then he had to make it back to civilization.

  His thirst was overwhelming. He could drain the water-skin in a heartbeat. Harn was just as thirsty. Joash told himself that he alone must drink so he could save humanity. Then, he snorted softly. He desperately wanted all the water for himself. Any other thinking was rationalization.

  He uncorked the water-skin, and allowed himself a squirt. That was good. He took another swallow, and capped the water-skin before he guzzled everything. When the overwhelming urge passed, he slid to Harn and squirted water into his mouth. Harn wagged his tail. Joash squirted a little more, and capped the water-skin for good.

  The fresh water cleared his head.

  The sea extended in all directions. It was a daunting sight. He examined the half oar. In what direction should he paddle? “East,” he whispered. He studied the stars to gain his bearing. Then he knelt at the edge of the raft, and rowed. It was hard work, and after awhile, he flopped onto his back.

  “I’m a Seraph,” he snorted. “So what.”

  He stared sleepily at the stars. Before he knew it, he was woken by Harn licking his face.

  “I’m awake,” Joash grumbled, pushing the big head away.

  Harn whined uneasily.

  Joash rolled over, and his stomach tightened with fear. The moon was up, its pale rays shining on a monster—the leviathan.

  Joash was scared all over again.

  The leviathan looked bigger than before. It was as if the Tiras, half-submerged, moved past them. The leviathan’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight, and he stirred the seawater. He’d swamp the raft if he came too close.

  Joash spotted the spear. He laughed grimly. How pathetic. Fortunately, the leviathan kept swimming, taking no notice of them.

  After awhile, Harn barked at the side of the raft, from the direction the leviathan had come.

  “What is it, boy?” Joash asked.

  Harn whined and wagged his tail.

  Joash got unsteadily to his feet. He swayed, surprised at how sore he was. Thrown deep underwater and paddling for hours had taken its toll. Joash closed his mouth in surprise. A cluster of water-skins floated nearby. Had the leviathan brought them? No, the leviathan was just a monster. It wouldn’t have been intelligent enough to carry water-skins in its mouth for any survivors.

  Joash paddled to the cluster and hauled them aboard. He tasted the water, then drank and drank and drank. When done, he gave Harn all he could hold. Only then did he notice that this was an Elonite water-skin.

  Had they floated here from the wrecks?

  Joash peered around for the leviathan. Nothing.

  Using the stars for guides, Joash paddled east. When he grew weary, he stretched out and let the gentle current propel them while he slept. When he awoke, dawn painted the east.

  He tried to discern a shoreline, and soon thought that he did, though the dark smudge on the horizon could be a bank of clouds.

  East should take them south of Jotunheim, but still close to it. From maps he’d looked at in Captain Maharbal’s cabin, he supposed they were near Nebo Land, that tree-filled area that surrounded the pirate city of Shamgar. He believed the raft headed north of Shamgar. To get home, or to a city belonging to the League of Peace, they’d have to pass through enemy territory.

  Herrek stirred.

  Joash slid to him, and propped up his head. It radiated heat. He gave the warrior water.

  Consciousness slowly flowed into Herrek’s bloodshot eyes. He groaned, and dragged his hand across his eyes, rubbing them. “More water,” he whispered. Herrek coughed when he was done. It was a deep-lunged, sickly sound. “I’m cold,” the warrior complained.

  “Your padding and leathers are still damp,” Joash said. “The sun will dry them out.”

  Herrek sat up, shivered and pulled Joash’s shirt tighter around his shoulders.

  “You should lie down,” Joash said. “Let Harn warm you.”

  Herrek’s teeth chattered, as he tried to pull the shirt over more of his torso.

  “Lay down,” Joash urged.

  Herrek complied, and Joash shoved Harn against him. The teeth chattering stopped, although from time to time, a shudder ran through Herrek. Joash feared he had a fever.

  “What...” Herrek licked his lips. “Where are we headed?”

  “East.”

  “Nebo Land.”

  “Try to sleep.”

  “Sleep,” Herrek slurred. He closed his eyes, shivered uncontrollably, reached over and pulled the big dog against him.

  Harn looked at Joash, pleading with his eyes.

  “Stay,” Joash said.

  Harn put his head down and endured the charioteer's hug.

  When the sun rose, Joash paddled until his arms became too weary. He was ravenous. He unwound his sling from around his waist. Then he pried metal from Herrek’s mail. He couldn’t snare any fish with these, but what about shooting birds.

  He studied the empty sky. In despair, he drank more water, waited until noon, then paddled again. In an hour, seagulls circled them. Joash doubted he could hit one on the wing.

  He found a sack of soggy bread among his water-skins. He tore some into crumbs and sprinkled them over the water. The raft drifted. Joash sprinkled a few more, waited, then sprinkled still more. He hoped fish spied the crumbs. The gulls might dive to eat the fish. He could sling a gull then. It was a long shot. Then, to his surprise, a gull landed in the water and pecked a crumb. Another seagull screamed outrage and landed beside the first. Apparently, crumbs this far out to sea were worth eating.

  Joash stood slowly. The seagulls were far enough away so they didn’t seem to care. He put metal in his sling, and twirled it above his head. He judged the rise of a low wave and the targeted seagull.

  He released.

  The metal whizzed over the bird. It squawked, but it didn’t seem to realize what had almost hit it. Joash hurriedly dropped another link into his sling. He twirled, and told himself to relax. Think of them as hyenas, he told himself.

  A seagull snatched a crumb from under another bird’s beak. The metal sped true, and struck the pirate-gull. It flopped backward. The others screamed in fright, and flew into the air.

  Joash dove into the sea. He grabbed its neck and, despite the other gulls, he paddled to the raft.

  He was thrilled, as he hauled himself aboard. He plucked the seagull, and woke Herrek. The warrior nodded grimly, and together, they devoured the bird raw. It tasted awful, but it removed some of the horrible emptiness in Joash’s stomach. He gave Harn the bones and saved the gristle.

  Using the pin to Herrek’s cloak, Joash used his sling, and made a fishing line. For the next several hours, he trolled, and caught two fish. One of them, he let Harn eat, the other he saved for later.

  Herrek mumbled in his sleep, and his fever worsened. He dripped sweat and shivered. Joash made sure he drank lots of water.

  Night came, so Joash slept as best he could.

  Next day, two hours after sunrise, he thought he saw land. He shook Herrek awake. The warrior was pale, but he nodded after Joash told him they’d been traveling east.

  By now, more of the shore was visible. They were closer, and the sun was just above the trees. It looked like a dense forest, filled with oaks, maples and beeches. It was just like back home where the Huri lived—only here lived Nebo. Zillith had told him the Nebo had lived longer under the bene elohim than any other tribe of humanity. When the Shining Ones had finally taken the bene elohim off the Earth, a clan of fiends had freely roamed through Nebo Land. Zillith said some Nebo practiced cannibalism, and some worshiped First Born. Othe
rs served in Shamgar’s slaver expeditions. Like Huri, Nebo were excellent trackers. Joash felt anxious and he felt responsible about telling others what had happened.

  He shaded his eyes against the sun, and studied the shore. He paddled toward a muddy beach, seeing a nearby river-mouth filled with reeds. Farther back were cypress trees. Rising behind the trees, was a far-off mountain range. Joash dredged his none-to-accurate knowledge of geography. Those must be the Hanun Mountains. Shamgar was situated in the delta of the Hanun River.

  The water in the small bay changed from green to muddy black as they neared the mouth.

  Herrek pushed up, and peered at the shoreline. As the swollen sun rose, bright-feathered birds and thousands of insects sang and hummed. Here and there, a deer stepped into view or small animals darted among the nearest trees. Joash smelled musty leaves and loamy soil.

  Pale and shivering, Herrek donned his leathers and padding. With Joash’s help, he put on his chainmail and belted his longsword. Finally, he stood upright, leaning heavily on Joash’s purloined spear.

  “We may be the only ones left from the Tiras and the Gisgo,” the charioteer-noble said. “It falls on us to see that Tarag is stopped.”

  Joash had been thinking about spreading word of what the First Born planned, not stopping Tarag himself.

  Herrek smiled grimly. “I am a warrior. You are both my groom and a Seraph. Do we need more to accomplish Elohim’s task?” His hot eyes burned. “You and I went to the crypt and back, did we not?”

  “Yes, Warrior.”

  “Alone, Lod went into depraved Shamgar and stirred up a hornet’s nest,” Herrek said. “Perhaps Lod is a Caphtorite noble, but we are Elonites.”

  Joash nodded.

  “We have been saved from Nidhogg for a reason.” Herrek breathed heavily, and added, “Old Three Paws fell before me. I slew Gaut Windrunner with a single cast of my spear. Cannot Tarag also be slain?”

  “He can,” Joash whispered.

  “We will win great glory, Groom. But only if we remember one thing.”

  Joash nodded encouragingly. He noticed Herrek didn’t say they’d be victorious, merely win glory. That was a charioteer way of saying they marched to their doom, but they would die well.

  Sweat slicked Herrek’s forehead, and his arms trembled. He finally sank down, and shivered himself to sleep.

  With foreboding thoughts, Joash paddled toward shore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Adrift

  Every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time.

  -- Genesis 6:5

  One of the Tiras’s longboats floated in the open sea. Six people held oar-handles, although they weren’t rowing. They were all grimy, sea-stained and near exhaustion.

  “They’ve turned south,” Auroch whispered.

  “We must row,” Lord Uriah said.

  Adah groaned. Her muscles almost refused to respond. The past twenty-four hours had been a grim ordeal spawned by the Nidhogg nightmare. Finally though, like the others, she rowed. Her hands were raw. Despite the best Zillith could do, infection had set in. Adah tried to ignore the pain, but when her oar-blade bit the water the third time, she almost fainted. So, she hummed to herself, and thought of Joash.

  “Adah?” Zillith asked from behind.

  “I’m fine,” Adah mumbled.

  “She looks bad.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Lord Uriah said. “We must escape Gog’s galleys.”

  “You can’t make her row when she’s suffering like that.”

  “She must row,” Auroch rumbled. “It’s either that, or be captured and sent to the dungeons under the Oracle. Then, any agony here would seem like paradise.”

  Adah knew the pirate spoke the truth. Gibborim had captured her before. She groaned at the bitter memory. It was a memory that haunted her hour by hour, and it was worse in the dark. Why was it dark now? She knew the sun blazed. She could feel its heat on her skin.

  “Lay back, Adah.”

  “No,” she wheezed, uncertain who had spoken. “I’ll row.”

  Someone hissed, “Look! Over on the very edge of the horizon, I see a sail.”

  “Can you see their flag?” Lord Uriah sounded desperate.

  For several oar-strokes, no one answered. Adah was lost in pain and the memory of unspeakable horrors.

  “I see their flag,” young-voiced Amery said. “The galley flies a red trident flag.”

  “It’s one of Gog’s!”

  “What should we do?”

  “Are there sliths in the sky?” Lord Uriah asked.

  “None.”

  “No, I can’t see any, either.”

  “What direction does the galley move?” Lord Uriah asked. Lord Uriah’s eyesight wasn’t as good as Amery’s or the pirate’s sight.

  Despite the pain, Adah concentrated on pulling her oar. The physical pain was better than her nightmares. Something inside her felt broken. She swallowed coppery tasting fluid and heaved on the oar. They had to escape the galleys.

  Only a handful had survived Nidhogg’s attack. Like an old un-killable rat, Lord Uriah had been the first to gain the rowboat. He’d dragged her aboard. Now, with Auroch’s gift, they’d rowed into areas where the pirates weren’t searching. All night and all morning, they’d rowed. Several hours ago, they spotted a slith far to the east, but their luck had held. The slith had flown away, apparently without spotting them. Later, they drank the last of the fresh water, but still they rowed.

  Adah moaned again, her stomach afire with pain.

  “Let her rest. The pain is driving her mad.”

  “Better to be driven mad than captured,” Auroch said.

  “Quiet,” Adah hissed. “We must be quiet, or they’ll hear us.”

  “It’s too late,” Zillith said sadly. “She’s raving.”

  “Shhh,” Adah said, although she didn’t miss a stroke.

  Long ago, when she’d been an archer-maiden of the Tribe of Poseidonis, the enemy had captured her. O Poseidonis! Terrible Poseidonis! It was the home to Yorgash the High Slith Sorcerer. It was the home to his ghastly children, the Gibborim. Adah lived minute by minute with the bitter memory of what had been done to her, and to those captured with her. Any darkness held horror. The sound of snapping bones, even if done by camp dogs, made her knees buckle. And the gruesome, but oh so soft noise of feeding Gibborim, ah, every night she heard that noise in her dreams.

  “The galley is turning,” Amery said. “Look at the sail, no, where the clouds meet the sky.”

  “Shhh,” Adah whispered. “Don’t speak. They’ll hear you if you speak.”

  “She’s raving, brother. Let her rest.”

  “Not yet.”

  In her memories, Adah crouched in the midnight-darkened hall where she’d endured the worst horrors of her life. It had been a vast hall. She had heard echoes of people speaking to one another. It had been Yorgash’s game hall. There, Adah and her fellow tribe members had been herded.

  Adah moved slowly in her memories. She moved soundlessly in the dark hall, otherwise the Gibborim would hear and swoop in for the kill. She’d heard many a kill while hiding. First was the scream of unholy terror. Then, she’d heard the terrible breaking of bones. A wet laugh often followed. Then, the awful, awful sounds of feeding, of sucking, of feasting on human blood. For three days, she’d survived in the dark hall. By straining to hear every sound, by using every sense to its fullest...she’d crawled and tiptoed to safety more times than she’d been able to count. One more hour, and then Yorgash would send for her Adah had carefully counted the peals of the gong that struck every hour.

  In her feverish memories, she froze. Someone was behind her. She held her breath as she heard the rustle of cloth. A hand fell on her shoulder. She screamed and screamed.

  “Adah! It’s me! Zillith.”

  Adah kept screaming and thrashing. They had her. The Gibborim had her. Now they’d feast on her in ghastly ways. Later, they might drain her soul into a skull.<
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  Water drenched her, gushed into her mouth. She choked, and stopped screaming.

  “Adah.”

  The sun blazed overhead. Where were the Gibborim?

  “Adah? Can you hear me?”

  Adah tried to focus. She saw blurry round shapes.

  “Look at her hands,” someone was saying. “They’re bloody. Look at her mouth. She’s spitting blood.”

  “She has great spirit,” Auroch said.

  “Where am I?” Adah whispered.

  “The sea,” said a man.

  She tried to focus. The man had a white beard. His eyes, for once, weren’t bloodshot from too much ale. Lord Uriah. Tears welled in Adah’s eyes. The Gibborim were far from her. She was among friends. She smiled and then wept, because Joash wasn’t among them.

  “Rest, dear Adah,” Lord Uriah said. “For the moment, we’re safe.”

  She nodded. She was lying down, and someone had rigged a cloth so the sun no longer blazed on her face. The rowboat rose in a swell. Zillith peered under the tiny tent, while Amery had a line over the side, fishing in the green Suttung Sea. Auroch and Lord Uriah whispered behind her. Gens carved on his stick that had survived Nidhogg’s dreadful attack. Out of the Tiras and the Gisgo, these were the only survivors. Poor Captain Maharbal had gone down with his ships. Joash—Adah decided not to allow herself to think about him. That brought too much pain. What was important now was that they survived Gog’s searching galleys. They must warn others about Tarag and his blasphemous plan.

  Where was Lod? Surely, he, too, must be searching for them. Or, was it true that Gog had slain Lod? That seemed impossible.

  Her thoughts drifted as she fought sleep. She knew that if she slept, she’d dream. She didn’t want to dream, because there lived the Gibborim. Night after night, they moved in the darkness of her dreams.

  Only one thing had kept her sane in that dreadful hall. Only one thought had drummed in her mind. Each time a tribe-member’s bones had been broken, each time someone had screamed in horror, each time she’d heard the ghastly feeding, she’d told herself one thing. She would do anything in her power to thwart any Nephilim, or any First Born. She’d endured the game hall in order to pay them back in whatever coin she could. Since killing the enemy was difficult, she tried to thwart their plans. That too was hard. But she’d told herself that she’d be a gnat that always buzzed in their ears. She’d allow them no rest, no peace, no joy. Only that thought had kept her alive. That one thought had allowed her sanity to endure the game hall.