Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  Joash swallowed, desperately trying to figure a way of escape.

  “Raise your hands!”

  “Are you sure you can defeat me?”

  Caution entered the Nebo’s old eyes, but something else was there as well. He snarled, “I can hurl this spear as good as any man. By the spirits, I can. If you don’t come out, I’ll gut you like a riverfish.”

  “You’ll miss,” Joash said, not believing that at all.

  “Oh no,” the old Nebo said, “I won’t miss. I still have strength enough to throw that far. Now move!” the Nebo shouted.

  Joash pushed himself into the main stream where the bottom was lined with pebbles instead of mud.

  “Stand up!” the Nebo shouted. He shifted his spear, holding it beside his head for a throw.

  Joash moved to a crouch, his hands underwater.

  “Don’t play your tricks with me, new-slave.”

  “No,” Joash said, “no more tricks.” He swayed upright, and flashed his dagger in the sunlight.

  “By my grandmother’s bones... Where did you get an iron weapon?”

  Now that the water only came to Joash’s knees, and he stood upright with a weapon in his hands, some of his hope returned. The Nebo licked his lips. He touched his human-teeth necklace. “Throw the blade here,” he ordered.

  “Come and take it,” Joash said, who noticed anew that the Nebo’s spear was tipped with flint. Maybe these Nebo didn’t have many iron weapons.

  The Nebo swallowed. “You don’t think I can?”

  “No.”

  “You’re wrong,” the old Nebo said, more to himself. His eyes gleamed as he studied the blade.

  Joash examined the determination in the Nebo’s rheumy old eyes. “Look,” he said, trying to sway the tribesman before it was too late for both of them. “Neither of us needs to do this.”

  “I must.”

  “No, you can turn around and walk away.”

  The Nebo’s face tightened.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Joash said. “I’ve seen far too much death.”

  “The Gibborim will know I found you.”

  A Gibborim, a Nephilim, was on their trail? Joash hissed between his clenched teeth. He had to get away more than ever. He had to convince the Nebo to let him go. “Listen, the Gibborim won’t know we’ve parted ways. I’ll slip away from here, never to be found.”

  The old Nebo couldn’t take his eyes off the blade.

  “I’m a trained warrior,” Joash lied. “Don’t make me kill you.”

  Fear shone in the Nebo’s old eyes.

  “Do you agree?”

  The Nebo eyed the prized iron blade. “I have a spear,” he said at last.

  “True,” Joash said, desperate to be away. If he turned his back, the Nebo would impale him. “The spear,” he said, “won’t do you any good once you throw it. You’ll miss if you throw at me.”

  “I won’t miss,” the Nebo said, the shine in his eyes changing into a fiery gleam.

  “You’ve heard how I survived Gog’s terrible pet. You must know I’m swift enough to dodge a mere spear-cast.”

  The old Nebo rubbed his leathery chin. “Maybe, when you’re well you could dodge my cast.” He fingered his boar’s tusk, and grinned. “Look at you now, you’re tired and weak. Toss me the dagger, new-slave, and I’ll let you go.”

  “Sorry,” Joash said, “I have need of the dagger.”

  Anger bit the old Nebo. He took a tentative step. “I caught you fairly, with skill. Throw me the dagger in trade for your life.”

  This wasn’t working. Bitterly, Joash knew he’d be forced to kill or be killed. He made one more attempt. “Maybe I am tired, but I can still defeat you. You’d better consider that, before you do something you’ll regret.”

  “Throw me the dagger!”

  Then, Joash knew the Nebo would try to capture him, if he could. He shuffled toward the man, both trying to close for knife-work, and to gain the shallow water for better footing. He was desperately trying to remember everything Herrek had taught him.

  “Drop the knife!” the old Nebo screamed.

  Joash forced a laugh. It was time to fight. His stomach tightened with fear.

  The old hunter flicked his bony wrist. Joash tried to twist aside, but the Nebo was too close, the throw too true. The flint tip slashed Joash’s thigh, cutting muscle. Then it sliced past to stick in the river bottom. Blood pumped, and Joash dropped his knife, as he grabbed his leg.

  Before Joash could hunt for his knife, the old Nebo took the grass rope and made a lasso. He swung and threw. Joash threw himself backward, but the loop landed around his neck. He was barely fast enough to stick an arm into the loop to keep the Nebo from choking him as the loop tightened.

  The old Nebo laughed as he hauled Joash closer. Joash stuck his good foot against a rock. He strained to keep in place. The Nebo waded toward him, and paused as Joash grinned.

  The Nebo muttered as he rubbed his chin. Seven paces separated them. Shrugging, the Nebo released the rope, bypassed Joash by several paces and headed to his lodged spear. Joash pried at the loop, the loss of blood making him light-headed.

  “When I get my spear,” the Nebo yelled, “I’ll kill you.”

  Joash tugged off the rope, slipped the loop over his foot, up his leg to above the wound and cinched it tight. The amount of blood pumping out of his leg slowed. He yanked tighter. The flow stopped, with only a small seepage trickling out. His head drooped, but he reeled in the rope and crawled toward shore.

  “You crawl all you want,” the old Nebo raged, as he withdrew his spear from the river.

  Sweat poured off Joash’s face, as he pushed off the bottom pebbles. A great and final exhaustion filled him. He knew he would pass out soon, and wouldn’t wake up for many hours, maybe days. The grinning old Nebo plowed his thin legs through the water after him.

  “What about the dagger?” Joash shouted, trying to outfox the Nebo.

  “I’ll get it after I tie you up.”

  Remembering that the man had trouble hearing, Joash shook his head. “No, I hear dogs coming.”

  The old Nebo stopped and cocked his head. “I don’t hear them.”

  Joash laughed weakly. “It doesn’t matter to me, but they’re coming all right. I’ll tell the younger hunters about the dagger. They’ll get it then, not you.”

  The Nebo cursed, looking indecisive.

  Splashing water onto his face to stay awake, Joash mocked the Nebo. “They’re coming, old man.” He crawled onto the bank, pushing bulrushes.

  The Nebo cursed.

  Joash laughed at him. “No iron dagger for you, old man.”

  Rage writhed upon the Nebo’s wrinkled face. With a roar, he used a two-handed grip as he ran at Joash. “The spirits damn you!”

  As waves of unconsciousness rolled over him, Joash waited for the end. The Nebo splashed water, yelling as he came. Pride, rage and mockery had worked their magic. His pale, rheumy eyes blazed with murder-lust. Gaining speed as the water grew shallower, the old Nebo poised the spear at waist-level, and shouted loud enough to make his voice crack. Suddenly, he slipped as he lunged.

  Joash saw the look of failure in the hunter’s eyes. Joash knew that even five years ago the hunter could have caught himself in time. Age had done its damage, however. Joash could almost pity him, but he readied to fight as the old Nebo fell. The spear grazed his arm. Joash half-jumped, half-fell atop the old hunter, and the two struggled.

  Joash locked his fingers around the Nebo’s throat, and smashed the old man’s head against a rock. The Nebo’s hands lost strength. Joash lifted the head, and dashed it down again. The Nebo groaned, his eyes glazing, but still he fought. Joash lifted the head once more, and dashed it against the rock. The Nebo’s old eyes fluttered, and rolled up into his head.

  Sweating, bleeding, with perhaps only a few more minutes of consciousness left, Joash dragged the old hunter’s limp body deeper into the bulrushes. He tightened the rope above his ugly wound, then t
ook the spear and crawled away. He had to warn Herrek. Gibborim were near. Somehow, Gog and Tarag knew they’d survived Nidhogg.

  Everything went blurry. Joash crawled farther, not knowing how far. Finally, he stopped, and slumped unconscious onto the ground.

  ***

  Later, birds cried and branches shook.

  Joash awakened and groggily raised his head. Someone was near. He eased forward, and tried to lift his spear. He heard something. What? He heard the chink of chainmail.

  “Herrek?” he whispered.

  “Joash?” came back a reply.

  “Over here,” Joash whispered, waves of relief washing over him. He was shaking.

  Harn bounded through the foliage, and licked his face. Then, Herrek was beside him. The warrior was pale, but he wasn’t sweating from a fever anymore. Maybe he was thinner, but at last, alertness was back in his eyes.

  “Thank Elohim you’re alive,” Herrek said, upon seeing Joash’s pitiful state. “You can thank your dog’s nose. Otherwise, I’d never have found you.” He pulled Harn off, and asked questions.

  In a daze, Joash told him about the river fight, the Gibborim and his thoughts about Tarag and Gog being the authors of the search.

  “We need to leave,” Herrek said.

  Joash looked around, but didn’t recognize where he was. He’d crawled farther than he’d realized.

  “We need to leave Nebo Land,” Herrek said.

  “We could rig the raft with a make-shift sail.”

  “Yes, maybe that would be best,” Herrek said.

  “We’ll have to attempt it in the dark.”

  “Wise,” Herrek said.

  “And hide until then.”

  Herrek nodded grimly, taking out his kit to sew Joash’s wounds.

  With Herrek’s supporting arm on one side and the spear as a crutch on the other, they staggered to their hiding spot.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Gathering

  You have made men like fish in the sea, like sea creatures that have no ruler. The wicked foe pulls all of them up with hooks, he catches them in his net.

  -- Habakkuk 1:14,15

  The trolock made a strange, gurgling sound before he looked down on the struggling primitive. The primitive was similar to all the others: small, with stark bands of muscles crisscrossing his body. He strained to break his bonds. The primitive possessed a loincloth and a necklace of human teeth. He, along with his brethren, had been rudely surprised and captured. It had been the sound of their beating drums which had guided the trolock into their midst.

  The trolock put his stony fingers around the primitive’s head and squeezed. The primitive wailed in agony. The trolock grunted. In a moment, the skull split with an ugly noise. The primitive twitched, and gave up his spirit. The trolock made the same strange gurgling sound as he had before. As the spirit passed into the afterlife, he who had once been Lord Skarpaler, warmed himself. In the warming, he saw a portion of what the Nebo had been. The process quickened him.

  “I feast upon thy greatness, O Death,” he quoted. “I taste thy forbidden sting.”

  When he was done, the trolock stretched his stony arms and spread his thick fingers. The power of death filled him, warmed him with this addition. The trolock basked in the warmth, shuddered with delight at this new awareness and strength. Oh, these were base vessels, to be sure. They were grubbing forest primitives, who lived a life of brutish-ness. This land was so unlike the wind-swept steppes. But spirits were spirits. And, unlike the beasts of the field, he could feed on humanity and its ilk. However, the richer, more varied, and more cultured the being, the greater the feast.

  “You have brought me to feed, Desecrator.” The trolock gave a stony chuckle. The primitives had been wary, but they obviously did not know the likes of him. The leashed dogs had failed to smell him, had failed to give the signal that final death approached. Therefore, they had been easily captured and consumed.

  “Such paltry fare,” he rumbled. The trolock knew that once he had feasted much better on the soldiers who had fought with the Shining Ones. Those had been bold men, filled with the zest of knowledge and with the tastiness of a rich life. Those grand warriors had not been skulkers in the forests who beat annoying drums. The trolock made a contemptuous sound. These base fellows, these Nebo, consorted with Gibborim. The trolock had seen that from the Nebo’s passing spirit. Oh, he’d seen much from these Nebo of the Sea-Eagle Clan.

  The journey from the steppes had taught him a great deal about this age. Giants joined with sabertooths, and now Gibborim joined them. Each of the vain Gibborim, he’d sensed from afar, wore a necromantic skull of souls.

  He yearned to gain such skulls. He would be quickened upon the breaking of them. And he had a plan. The gaining of such skulls would be wise. For when he was done with the desecrator, he could take the skulls to the crypt and crack them. Ah, that would awaken an army of trolocks. Then he could sweep the world clean of life, and give it as a gift to his departed Master. Then, he who had once been Lord Skarpaler, would be the greatest life-bane ever. The Master, wherever he now dwelt, would surely be pleased.

  The trolock turned, looking through the growth where he’d marched. A gnat followed him, a sly, elusive gnat. He’d tried to capture it that day at the stream, when he’d tracked the strange youth in the rowboat. A power had filled the youth, but a primitive had arrogantly shot him with an arrow and enraged him. He’d turned to capture him.

  This particular primitive was tireless, and he, too, had a strange power. It made him difficult to spot, difficult to track. Somewhere behind him followed this arrogant primitive, this annoying gnat.

  Once he’d become sufficiently quickened, ah, then the primitive would see how the trolocks had been fashioned to move. The Master had not made them to be sluggish, but swift and deadly. Soon, soon they would all learn.

  First, however, he must feast, and warm himself even more with the flames of final death. He must crush more Nebo beneath his stony fingers, and these Gibborim with their prized skulls of souls—

  Before he could meet, and slay the desecrator, he must become greatly quickened indeed. First Born were dangerous. First Born could turn at bay, and destroy trolocks.

  Had not the First Born already done so in the crypt?

  He, who had once been Lord Skarpaler, thoughtfully lowered his mighty arms. He picked up the giant’s spear and marched through the forest.

  ***

  Joash sat on the raft. He used a vine to lash a crossbar to a tall piece of wood. With his knife, he’d bored a hole into the raft, which he plugged with the wood. Herrek whittled at the old oar from the Tiras. He’d constructed a Y-slot out of wood and vine, and had pegged it into the raft. The oar would be a steering-tiller and a sweep.

  Together, they’d pried up unneeded boards and nails. With a branch that had a heavy knothole, Herrek had hammered the boards alongside the raft and into the water. They were leeboards, taking the place of a keel. Without such, sailing would be impossible.

  Dusk would arrive in another hour. Incessant drums beat all around them. At times, distant barking told them the Nebo were closing in.

  Joash finished lashing the crossbars into place. With his needle and catgut threads, he sewed Herrek’s cloak into place.

  “A charioteer doesn’t drive into a swamp and await a charge of Shurites,” Herrek said. “A wise charioteer maneuvers into a better position. Then, he attempts glorious deeds. Stopping Tarag is our goal. We can’t do that surrounded by Nebo or captured by Gibborim. Nor do I think we can slip by on land through the cordon of Nebo that have surrounded us. The sea’s our only hope of slipping away to fight another day.”

  Joash nodded, knowing that Herrek hated fleeing. For himself, he just wanted to get out of Nebo Land, and... He wanted to find Adah, if she lived. Yes, he wanted that very much.

  ***

  Mimir knelt on one knee. He examined the withered old Nebo hunter. The barely breathing Nebo wore a boar’s tusk around his arm and
a necklace of human teeth around his skinny neck. The tribesman was a cannibal. Disgusting, just as the feeding habits of Gibborim were disgusting.

  “Is he important?” asked Ygg the Terrible.

  “Maybe,” Mimir said.

  The old cannibal lay on a stretcher. Nebo of the Sea-Eagle Clan had staggered into Tarag’s camp with him an hour ago. Lersi had sent him. The old cannibal had lost to a youth that sounded like the Seraph Joash. Lersi had also sent word that her hunters had closed off the known location of the youth, and an Elonite, who sounded like the man who’d slain Gaut Windrunner.

  Mimir shook the old cannibal. The Nebo groaned, but didn’t open his eyes.

  Ygg bent onto one knee and examined the Nebo’s head.

  “What is it?” Mimir asked.

  “The blows to the head were severe.”

  “Enough to kill him?”

  “Notice the marks on his face and neck. Gibborim work. They questioned him. That’s what’s killing him.”

  “Can you awaken him?” Mimir asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I need to question him.”

  Ygg pressed his huge thumb across the Nebo’s eyes. He spoke in a low tone, increased pressure and groaned. The groaning rose in volume. The old Nebo stirred. Ygg removed his thumb, bent close and blew into the Nebo’s face.

  The Nebo’s eyes fluttered.

  “Can you hear me?” Mimir asked.

  The old Nebo wet his lower lip. He stirred.

  “A First Born has heard of your bravery,” Mimir told him. “He is pleased that you found the youth.”

  “Dagger...” the old Nebo groaned. “Failed to get...”

  “What does he mean?” Mimir asked Ygg.

  “I’m unfamiliar with their customs.” Ygg fingered one of his dark braids. “Notice his garb. He’s one of these Flint People. Maybe he fought to gain the boy’s iron dagger.”

  “Ah,” said Mimir. “Yes. Clever reasoning.”

  Ygg shrugged.

  “Listen well, O bearer of the boar tusk totem,” Mimir told the old Nebo. “The First Born wishes to give you a present for your bravery.”

  The old Nebo looked up. “I wear a boar’s tusk,” he wheezed.