Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2)

by Vaughn Heppner

  “You must be a mighty hunter,” Mimir said.

  The old Nebo nodded slowly. The effort weakened him.

  Mimir said, “Because you fought the youth, an extremely dangerous warrior, the First Born has decided to give you a blade of iron.”

  The old Nebo’s eyes widened.

  Mimir drew his dagger, the size of a normal sword. He laid it on the Nebo’s chest. “Your bravery has earned you this.”

  The old Nebo fingered the Bolverk-forged steel. A wet laugh bubbled up his throat. His eyes gleamed.

  “Tell me about the fight,” Mimir said, “so I may relate the battle to the First Born.”

  The old Nebo looked up at Mimir. His eyes shone with pride. With a mighty effort, the old Nebo boasted of what he’d done. By clever questioning, Mimir learned what he sought to know. Soon, the old Nebo’s head slumped to the side. He was dead. The mighty effort had hastened his end.

  “What now?” asked Ygg.

  Mimir sheathed his dagger, and eyed the corpse. The cannibalistic fool had come close to slaying Joash. He pondered going to Tarag, and telling him how Lersi had improperly instructed the Nebo. The Seraphs were to be captured, not slain. He decided against it. There were better ways to use the information.

  “I want Joash,” Mimir said.

  “So does Tarag.”

  “Tarag will let either Lersi or me care for him. With his sabertooths, Tarag is unsuited to keeping a wounded human alive.”

  Ygg touched the jeweled hilt of his sword.

  “Quietly gather several giants,” Mimir said. “We’ll slip out of camp and join the Gibborim. Either we’ll capture Joash, or take him from the Gibborim.”

  “What if the Gibborim disagree?”

  Mimir smiled grimly. “Tell the others to bring their favorite weapons.”

  Ygg grinned. It made his dark, narrow face a mask of death. He toed the corpse. “Should I toss this to the sabertooths?”

  Mimir gazed at the boar’s tusk on the right arm of the dead Nebo. “No,” Mimir said, “I’ll bury him.”

  Ygg raised his eyebrows.

  “He was brave.”

  “Yes, bury him then,” Ygg agreed.

  Mimir scooped the frail corpse into his arms and went one way. Ygg went the other to gather the giants.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dark Tide

  Let no one be found among you who sacrifices his son or daughter in the fire, who practices divination or sorcery, interprets omens, engages in witchcraft, or casts spells, or who is a medium or spiritist or who consults the dead.

  -- Deuteronomy 18:10-11

  With the cowl hiding her features, Lersi regarded the Nebo chieftains before her, who were lying on their bellies. Behind her flickered two small lanterns, all the illumination she would allow at the meeting. Beyond the lanterns waited her brethren. Sibilant hissing and odd slurping sounds were made. Her fellow Chosen feasted on the head chieftain’s favorite slave. The head chieftain of the Sea-Eagle Clan of Nebo lay closest to her. He was a thick-shouldered man. In his right hand, he held his totem. It was a thick baton of wood, topped by a panther’s skull. This chieftain had slain the panther years ago, and bound the others to him by having the most powerful totem among them.

  Within her cowl, Lersi smiled. She longed to sink her teeth into the head chieftain’s neck. He was an arrogant man, and he showed a strange lack of deference to her. In Poseidonis, it was different. Bloodmeat knew their place in the scheme of things, not like here in Nebo Land.

  She sighed. The Nebo were gross tools, but all she had at present to do Tarag’s will. She feared Tarag, even as she feared her sire, Yorgash. First Born were harsh beings, filled with grim power and ever-grimmer conceptions of their importance in the world.

  The head chieftain raised his head. He had a blunt nose and cunning eyes. “O High One, we await your words.”

  Lersi’s smile vanished. How had this bloodmeat dared to speak before he’d been spoken to? Behind her, the brethren stopped their feast. The man’s arrogance and presumption leeched Lersi’s ability to respond. She trembled, barely able to stop herself from flying at the man, from ripping out his throat with her teeth, or disemboweling him with a slash of her talon-like fingers.

  “My warriors have located your prey,” the head chieftain said. “They hide on the coast in Panther Territory. Even now, the dogs howl for their blood.”

  “Silence!” Lersi hissed at the chieftain.

  Instead of the proper shaking and trembling, many of the Nebo chieftains raised their heads in order to see what she would do next. They needed a quick lesson, and then she would give them their instructions. Then, they would capture the prey without any possibility of slaying them—as that old fool had almost slain the boy.

  “Know, O chieftains,” Lersi said, “that I wield grim powers. Fail me, and your ancestors shall rise from the grave and devour you.”

  Lersi raised her hands, and chanted a terrible spell. She used the necromantic power of the skull that she wore under her tunic. In the skull, rested the immortal souls of many slain victims, taken in Poseidonis. In the air before her, the head of a withered old crone shimmered into existence. Lersi chanted more words, and the crone spoke in Nebo tongue to the bloodmeat prone before her.

  The chieftains quailed, and grew white with terror. Part of Lersi’s magic was that they saw in the apparition a departed loved one. The chieftains called aloud in fear, and now they trembled. One chieftain even leaped up in horrible fright and tried to flee.

  Lersi chanted again.

  Out of the mouth of the shimmering apparition, sped a white mist. The mist coiled around the fleeing man’s head. He screamed, and fell writhing to the ground. In moments, he was dead.

  Lersi’s shoulders slumped. The spell had been a powerful one, and it had used all the souls in her necromantic skull. Still, these fools would now be welded to her.

  “You must capture this Elonite noble,” she said. “You must bring me the youth. My brethren and I will follow. Fail, and you will die by your ancestor’s spirit, as that fool died. Two of you will instruct your men to bring dugout canoes.”

  “We will catch them,” the head chieftain said, he with the panther totem.

  Lersi was amazed that he could still speak. His courage was great. Successful or not she decided, she would kill this one and use his skull. Brave ones always made better receptacles than cowards did.

  “Arise,” Lersi said, “and gather your men. Time grows short.”

  ***

  “What was that?” Joash whispered.

  Herrek looked up in alarm.

  The sun had just set, although streaks of light still provided the last illumination. The drums had grown louder, more pervasive. Dogs barked. The forest loomed menacingly.

  “What do you see?” Herrek whispered.

  They knelt on the raft, hidden in reeds. The tide was at last going out. They’d needed that in order to work past the waves.

  “I’m not sure.” At Joash’s feet lay knife-sharpened sticks, javelins of sorts and a wooden club, with a thick knothole.

  “Is it Harn?” Herrek asked.

  Joash thought he’d seen movement. He picked up a javelin, and tried to pierce the gloom. A tall pile of boulders was near shore. He didn’t recall seeing that before. Was someone hiding there?

  A humid wind gusted toward sea. It carried the forest smells, the incessant drum talk and dogs barking.

  Herrek rowed with the sweep. The raft inched toward the sea. “Call Harn. He can’t do anymore good from shore.”

  Joash whistled low and quietly. Then, something at the corner of his eye moved again. He found himself staring at the boulders. If Nebo were there, why didn’t they cry out or try to stop them? An eerie feeling worked down his spine. The boulders seemed evil.

  Joash dragged Harn into the boat. He stank of filthy wet fur, but Joash gave him a hug anyway.

  “Start poling,” Herrek whispered.

  Joash thrust a pole into the mudd
y river. After ten minutes of sweaty work, they reached the river-mouth.

  “Raise the sail.”

  With his heart hammering, Joash set aside the pole. This was the test. Without the sail, their plan was doomed. He leaned the butt of the mast into the carefully built slot. It was unwieldy work, and the wind threatened to push the sail over. The raft slid sideways. Herrek cursed, trying to correct their position. It didn’t help. The raft slid remorselessly toward the nearest shore. Stones ground under the raft, the sound exaggerated in the dark. Herrek cursed again, and leaped into the water, straining to push the raft off the stones. Joash finally pushed the mast upright. He tied vines into place, securing the sail. The old cloak billowed, and further ground the raft onto the stony shore.

  “Help me push!” Herrek hissed.

  Joash jumped overboard. His thigh-wound throbbed. He was sure it was bleeding again. But, if they couldn’t get away, what did it matter?

  “There!” a Nebo roared. “I see them!”

  Joash shot an agonizing glance at the forest. He saw man-sized shapes running toward them. With a burst of strength, he and Herrek grated the raft over stones and farther into the river.

  The raft began to move toward the sea.

  “Jump aboard,” Herrek roared.

  Joash did, and checked the sail. The vines held, and the mast wasn’t coming out of the slot. Herrek swept the oar back and forth, trying to keep them aimed right.

  “It’s working!” Herrek shouted.

  After checking his wound, Joash picked up javelins. By starlight, he saw the Nebo. Dogs ran ahead of them.

  “Capture them alive!” roared a Nebo with a baton topped by a panther’s skull. “If anyone harms the prey, I’ll rip out his heart and eat it!”

  The raft picked up speed as dogs and Nebo splashed along the river.

  “This will be close,” Herrek said.

  Joash judged the distance.

  A dreadful hiss sounded. It chilled Joash. The hiss came from the forest. He looked back, but there was nothing to see. The Nebo raised a ragged, desperate cry and raced faster.

  Herrek and Joash sailed out of the river-mouth and into the bay. A cold wave rolled against them, drenching them. The javelins were swept off the raft.

  “Grab the spear!”

  Joash did, just before it rolled off.

  A flint-tipped spear thudded at Joash’s feet. He looked back in alarm. Nebo raced along the riverbank, a few jumping into the sea. Joash dodged the next spear. It tore through the sail.

  “Throw something back.”

  Joash flung a Nebo spear, but missed. Still, it caused Nebo to slow down.

  “Just a little farther,” Herrek said, “then we’re safe.”

  A Nebo spear, but without a spearhead, hit and staggered Herrek. His chainmail kept him from any real harm. Nevertheless, he turned with a roar. Nebo splashed hip-deep in the sea. Herrek leaped in, and waded at them.

  “Herrek, no!”

  The Nebo paused. One threw another headless spear. With his sword, Herrek knocked the spear out of the air. Then, Herrek hurled his steel-tipped spear. A Nebo toppled. “For Elon!” roared Herrek.

  Joash watched in horror, as the distance between them increased. “Kill!” he ordered Harn.

  Harn leaped, and swam after Herrek. Herrek and the Nebo met. The longsword flashed. A Nebo screamed. The others tried to grab Herrek, none of them using any weapons. Two more Nebo ran up to help. They carried nets. Then Harn was among them. The Nebo splashed back for shore.

  “Herrek!” Joash called.

  Herrek backed up, his sword high. Harn followed the charioteer noble. Once on dry land again, the Nebo stopped and hurled more headless missiles. None re-entered the dark sea to face Herrek.

  Joash took down the sail, and threw several stone anchors overboard. They were secured to the raft by strong vines. The raft had already made if far enough, so the waves flowed underneath rather than breaking over. Joash peered at the dark shore, and frowned. He saw the same tall pile of boulders as before. He sucked in his breath as fear swept through him.

  “Hurry!” Joash shouted at Herrek.

  Herrek waved his bloody sword. The waves already reached his chest. Harn swam.

  Joash groaned. Dark shapes, dugout canoes, slid onto the water. The paddlers were cloaked.

  “Hurry!” Joash shouted.

  Herrek glanced back, and then waded with greater speed.

  By the time Joash hauled an exhausted Herrek onto the raft, the canoes were halfway here. He saw lean figures in dark cloaks. They paddled dreadfully fast. No weapons were evident. He wondered if they had nets.

  “Raise the sail,” Herrek said thickly.

  Joash frantically worked up the mast.

  “I count five paddlers,” Herrek said.

  Joash tied vines into place and cut away the anchors. The raft moved out to sea.

  “Stop!” hissed the leader in the nearest dugout.

  “Stand back!” Herrek roared.

  The leader drew back her cowl.

  Joash gasped. In the starlight, he saw a pale, pale face—a face filled with death. She had sharp, fang-like teeth, and horrible eyes that blazed with murderous intensity. She was incredibly beautiful. Long, silky hair framed her narrow face. Joash felt a sick longing to serve her, to obey her every whim.

  “Halt,” she commanded.

  Joash’s limbs turned leaden. Herrek lowered his sword.

  “Drop the sail.”

  Joash turned to obey, but then loathing filled him. Magic. She used magic. Rage filled Joash, and a grim desire to hurt her. He hurled his last Nebo javelin.

  She hissed, and snatched it out of the air. “Fool. You will learn the folly of disobeying Lersi.”

  Joash tore Herrek’s longsword out of the warrior’s numb grasp. His heart beat with fear, but if they could make it out to sea—He raised the sword. “Come closer, Gibborim, and teach me my foolishness.”

  Her faced screwed with rage. The others dug their paddles into the sea.

  Lersi suddenly leaped ten feet from the canoe and into the raft. Joash swung. The blade clinked against a slender dagger. Harn tried to sink his teeth into her. She swept the dog into the water, and with impossible speed, she darted underneath Joash’s counter-swing. She pricked his wrist. The sword fell from his hands. Joash tried to hit her. She laughed, her breath filled with a charnel stench, her eyes powerful with hypnotic strength. She caught his fist and squeezed.

  Joash cried out.

  “Bow before your mistress.”

  He could do naught but obey.

  The others tied Herrek and Joash, and put them in the canoes.

  With her cowl back in place, Lersi patted Joash on the head. “You’re a clever little gilik, aren’t you? I’ll make sure you regret the trouble you’ve caused me. And, if you ever call us Gibborim again, I’ll rip out your tongue and feed it to you.”

  “What should I call you?”

  Her talons left bloody marks as she slapped him. “You are chattel, bloodmeat. You will not address me with questions, only with answers and eager servitude.”

  Joash feared. Not even Mimir had been like this. He knew now why Adah had never spoken about the Gibborim. They were twisted and evil. The ones who paddled had sharp, jerky motions, but they were fast and filled with vile strength. Joash looked at Herrek, who sat in the other boat. The warrior hadn’t said a word since their capture.

  As they neared shore, Joash saw Nebo lying on their bellies. The tribesmen were terrified of the Gibborim. He also noticed the tall pile of boulders. The Gibborim seemed not to notice it. Either they were unaware of the trolock, or it was their ally. The dugouts were pulled onto shore. Herrek and he were forced to walk. The Gibborim ignored the prone Nebo. Joash turned to see if Harn had made it ashore. Lersi slapped his head.

  “Do not look around, gilik.”

  Joash gritted his teeth. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the trolock stared at them. At the trolock’s feet, covered by
reeds, was a giant’s spear. He recalled Captain Maharbal had once suggested they return to the crypt to waken more trolocks. The giants had feared them, and so had Tarag. Surely, this trolock couldn’t be the friend of Gibborim, another form of Nephilim.

  Joash bolted toward the trolock.

  Lersi hissed, “Your training begins now.”

  With his hands tied behind his back, Joash ran as hard as he could toward the unmoving trolock. It watched him. A taloned hand dug into his shoulder. He cried out.

  A stony chuckle sounded.

  The Gibborim screamed. The trolock held onto the Gibborim’s head. A terrible crack sounded. The Gibborim twitched.

  “O Death!” the trolock roared. “I sup at thy feast spread before me!”

  Long, thin blades appeared in Gibborim hands.

  The trolock picked up his spear. A Gibborim twisted, with the hurled spear sticking through his chest.

  Screaming, Nebo fled into the safety of mother forest.

  Gibborim blades clicked harmlessly on the stony hide. The towering trolock reached for another of the children of Yorgash. The Gibborim wisely kept out of his reach. The trolock scooped up two jeweled skulls, and withdrew the giant’s spear from the dying Gibborim. “O Death,” he thundered, “I welcome your plenty.”

  “Retreat,” Lersi ordered.

  Joash felt himself picked easily off the ground. A Gibborim carried him. Herrek, however, was left behind. In moments, the swift Gibborim gained the forest.

  “You’ll be my pet for an eternity,” Lersi hissed into Joash’s ear.

  Joash trembled.

  “Chosen One,” a Gibborim said. “Giants approach.”

  Lersi cocked her cowled head. The loud clink of armor, and the jangle of the giants’ weapons, could be heard. “Maybe those lumbering fools can slay the trolock for us.”

  Joash saw lanterns. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He’d been so close to escaping. No, he told himself. Think! Act! Joash squinted. Mimir was better than Lersi. He tried to clench his hands, to feel them, but they were numb. The tight bonds cut off his circulation. The giants pushed through heavy foliage and clanked near. Joash recognized some—Mimir with the wise gleam in his eyes and Ygg the Terrible with his plaited braids.