The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6) Page 12

  “When the time comes, I’ll use it as a pike.”

  Bosk appeared skeptical. “Just run up and stab the giant, eh?”

  “Is there a better way to kill Manus Farstrider?”

  “What works is the better way.”

  “Have you fought Nephilim before?”

  “I’ve walked out of the Great Arena every time,” Bosk said. “I’ve cracked skulls with my fists, broken backs with my hands, crushed throats with my knees and used my feet to stomp men to death. Luck helps. But wanting victory more than life itself is the true key.”

  Lod wasn’t impressed. He’d walked out of the Stadium of Swords. He wondered if they’d heard about his feat in Shiva. It was a long way from Uruk, so probably not. He decided it was better not to mention it to Bosk.

  More important than luck or desire,” Lod said, “is Elohim’s smile.”

  Bosk grew uneasy.

  Lod crouched on the rock, and he studied the terrain the slave-chain passed. Manus Farstrider might reach the lake before nightfall. The road entered swamps that ringed the lake. Once the giant used the ferry and reached the other side of the Zin-Zur, he would be very near Nephilim-conquered territory. If Lod hoped to save the captives, he had to reach Manus before the giant reached the Zin-Zur.

  Lod barred his teeth as he remembered dying in the village, stuck by javelin to a cabin. He recalled Manus’s arrogant words. He remembered the mocking gestures. The lowlanders had killed Lila. Manus had refused to provide her a burial. Animals had gnawed at her.

  Lod gripped his javelin as he judged the steep trail down from this rock and to where the slave-chain presently toiled. He had pushed himself for days, running hard. Bosk slowed him down. As much as the huge man tried to keep up, he wasn’t a trained chariot-runner. Yet it was likely he would need help.

  Lod pried a hand free of the javelin and rubbed his jaw. It was white with stubble. He tried to reason with himself. After digging the arrow out of Bosk’s ham, the huge man had insisted they formally shake hands to seal their bargain. Lod’s hands had still been slick with Bosk’s blood. He hadn’t wanted to shake hands, but he had admired the stoic way Bosk had endured his cutting and probing with the sword-tip. And it had occurred to Lod then that as Elohim had pulled a javelin out of his chest, he had pulled an arrow out of possible ally’s leg. Did the symbolism mean anything? Lod had believed it might, so he’d stuck out his hand. With the pain of the surgery still evident on his features, Bosk had squeezed hard, forcing Lod to squeeze back. Maybe Bosk had been used to men crying out. The huge man had a bone-crushing grip, maybe bone-breaking. The pressure had increased, so had Lod’s grip. Finally, Bosk’s fierce grin had slipped, and he’d grunted as if surprised. Then something else had appeared on Bosk’s face, a hint of fear perhaps. Bosk had let go.

  Bosk’s attitude had changed since that moment, and Lod had caught the huge man studying him at times.

  “I mean to catch Manus before he reaches the lake,” Lod said.

  Bosk nodded heavily.

  Lod used the iron javelin and pointed it at the party far below. “Death waits down there. I will absolve you of your oath if—”

  “My friend,” Bosk said sharply, “you are driven, and you are… different from other men. Perhaps the one you serve does smile at you. But don’t assume others cannot stand by their oaths.”

  “We must run until we catch them,” Lod said.

  “I understand, so lead and I will follow.”

  Lod jumped off the rock and headed back for the trail. He had to catch Manus Farstrider before the giant reached the lake. He had to catch the lowlander slavers and kill the one who had almost ended his life forever.

  ***

  Several hours later, Lod called a halt beside an atrocity. Bosk simply lay down on the trail, breathing hard and sweating copiously.

  Lod bathed his face in the nearby stream. Cold mountain-water trickled over slick pebbles and stones. Lod drank his fill and refilled his canteen. Then he returned to the brutally executed slave, to one of the former villagers. The lowlanders had impaled old Achan, the carpenter. During his life, Achan had whittled flutes, figurines and decorated spoons, forks, bedposts, all sorts of wooden things.

  The lowlanders had stripped Achan of his clothes and planted him here on the wooden stake. The agony on the old man’s face spoke of the torture.

  Willing himself to touch cold flesh, Lod rose and grasped the corpse. He yanked, and with a splintering of wood, he broke the heavy stake that had been hammered into Achan’s flesh. Lod dragged the corpse off the trail.

  “You don’t have time to dig a hole,” Bosk said.

  Lod knelt on the hard soil. With his war-hatchet, he began to chop. The granite-like soil flew apart in flakes.

  From where he lay on the trail, Bosk said, “You need to rest.”

  Lod chopped harder. Back at the village, he had demanded that Manus Farstrider bury the dead. Would Elohim grant him aid if he now ignored the slain? That would make him a hypocrite. Poor old Achan, the lowlanders had made his end a foul one, a painful and humiliating death. To writhe on a stake, impaled, helpless, with the wooden point slowly digging its way deeper into one’s vitals—

  Lod chopped the flinty soil harder yet. He understood the horror too well. Dying on the iron javelin, amid feasting creatures—

  Lod took out his knife and began to dig into the softer soil. Soon, he used his hands. Then he came upon rocks. He used his knife again, prying out the stones, clacking them beside each other.

  “What’s the point?” Bosk asked. “His spirit is gone. He’s just dead flesh, an inanimate object. You’re going to need your strength to slay the giant and save the living.”

  Lod stopped, turned and looked at Bosk. The big man had sat up. His garments were sweat-soaked. Bosk had drained his canteen and let it drop onto the trail. He now ran big fingers through his bristles, what he had in lieu of hair.

  “We hunt a giant,” Lod said.

  Bosk watched him, waiting. Maybe that’s how he’d watched lesser men before in the Great Arena, waiting to see what they would do.

  “The giant has the blood of the gods,” Lod said. “I am but a man.”

  “…No, you’re more than a man,” Bosk said. “No man has ever withstood my grip before.”

  “To slay one with the blood of the high,” Lod said, “one needs help.”

  “What does any of that have to do with burying that old fool?”

  “I am the blade of Elohim,” Lod said, and there was a strange glint in his eyes.

  Bosk grew uneasy, and his gaze slid from Lod’s eyes.

  “I honor Achan by revering the remnants of his flesh,” Lod said. “That is in accord with the will of Elohim. I need help slaying the giant. More than rest, more than weapons and strength, I need the smile—”

  “Enough!” Bosk said. “Dig! Finish your ritual.” The big man grunted as he heaved himself onto his feet. Shuffling, he moved beside the stream, sat, pulled off his boots and let the cool, mountain water trickle over his swollen feet.

  In time, Lod muttered a prayer for Achan, slid the corpse into the shallow hole and began pitching dirt over it. Afterward, he piled rocks, hoping to keep the wild beasts from digging up the corpse.

  Lod cleaned his hands in the stream and drank again. Bosk had fallen into a sleep-like stupor, snoring heavily.

  Lod rubbed bleary eyes. He had many miles to go. He was tired. At least, the digging had rested his legs. He peered down the trail. It leveled out, and in the far distance, was the swampy area before the lake. Restlessness tore at him. He couldn’t sleep now even if he’d wanted too. He had to reach Manus Farstrider. He had to beat the giant to the lake and free the others.

  Lod lurched to his feet, gathered his pack, the javelin and then stood beside Bosk. Why did the big man bother? It had more to do than repaying a debt. Those with Nephilim-blood worked from baser motives. How could a man who regarded a corpse without pity know anything about honor?

  “Wake
up,” Lod said, shoving Bosk’s shoulder.

  The big man grunted, smacked his lips and opened bloodshot eyes.

  They stared at each other. Lod nodded curtly. With a grimace, Bosk began to shove his feet into his boots. Soon, the two began to pound along the trail after Manus Farstrider.

  ***

  Filth dotted the trail, and a stench had grown from the passage of rancid slaves. The lake drew closer, and so did the swampy land before the Zin-Zur. The swamp was a forest of tall reeds and taller bulrushes.

  “I need to rest,” gasped Bosk.

  Lod was unheeding. A vision of vengeance had hardened his resolve. Air burned down his throat. His side ached from the prolonged chase. He could smell the swampy land, the sour soil, the moistness and the stagnant pools of scum. How fast could the slaves move? Dusk was several hours away. He had to reach Manus Farstrider before the giant reached the ferry.

  “Elohim,” Lod hissed. “Use me as your knife. Plunge me into the belly of the giant. Drink his blood and bring him low to the grave. Let the jackals gnaw his flesh. Deny him mercy, as he denied others mercy. Let his bones bleach under the burning sun.” A harsh laugh escaped Lod’s throat.

  It made Bosk flinch.

  A hundred steps later, Bosk wheezed, “…Stop. I can’t go on.”

  Lod halted and crouched on the trail. In seconds, a sweating Bosk lay beside him. The big man wheezed, and his eyes were closed in pain.

  “One more league,” Lod said shortly.

  Bosk opened bloodshot eyes and stared at Lod. “You’re inhuman,” he whispered.

  Lod touched the scar over his lung. In a low tone, he said, “Manus Farstrider pinned me to a cabin to die. He mocked me. His men killed… a friend. Now I am the knife and I hunger for his death. It is a drumbeat in my mind.”

  “You’re possessed.”

  Lod shivered with the intensity of his emotions. His blue eyes smoldered. Soon, very soon, he would have his revenge. If he could push himself just a little longer, and if Manus was delayed from reaching the ferry—

  Lod stared at the blue sky. He looked upward as one beseeching. Then he heaved himself onto his feet.

  “So soon?” asked Bosk.

  Lod held out his hand. Bosk reached up. With a grunt, Lod hauled Bosk upright. Then, the two of them resumed their shuffling gait.

  -7-

  What decided Sarah to try to escape was the necromancer’s offer to let Gad ride his mule.

  The feverish boy had become rail-thin and couldn’t keep anything down. His eyes had become huge and staring, and the way the bones showed on his face—it tore at Sarah’s heart.

  The others were out of sight. They marched through a marsh of tall reeds, reeds taller than a man’s head. Clouds of gnats hovered to the sides of the trail. Often, she skirted muddy puddles or occasionally had to slosh through a pool of scummy water that washed against her ankles. She could see Manus’s golden helmet ahead. From mid-torso up, the giant towered over the reeds that hid his henchmen. Behind her, the necromancer rode his mule.

  The necromancer frightened her. He was strange, and had stranger habits. He rode his mule sidesaddle, leaning against a large bamboo cage filled with hideous bats. Most of the time, he kept the cage covered. The few times he’d removed the cloth, many of the bats had clutched the bamboo with their claws. They’d poked their vile snouts between the slats and watch Gad and her with eerie, hungering eyes. An evil intelligence seemed to glitter in their tiny red orbs, and from time to time, a sickly tongue had licked out of their fanged snouts.

  Periodically, the necromancer took out a bat, holding it as if it was a pigeon. He would croon to it, and bring the creature near his face. Invariably, the bat licked his sunken cheek. Twice, he had nicked his bony wrist and let a bat suck the welling blood.

  Unlike Manus’s henchmen, the necromancer had paid her scant attention. He watched Gad. During the countless miles, as she had coaxed the young boy to keep moving, as she’d carry him at times, she’d catch the necromancer watching from half-lidded eyes. He’d peer at Gad hungrily like one of his bats. Those times, he’d finger the hilt of his vile knife, the one with the jade pommel of a screaming man’s head.

  It was after one of his staring sessions that the necromancer made his offer.

  He’d coaxed his mule faster, until it had walked beside her. As the necromancer had leaned back against his cloth-covered cage, he’d said, “The boy is dying.”

  Sweat had trickled down Sarah’s back as she bore most of Gad’s weight. “He’ll make it,” she’d said, hating the necromancer. He rode his mule while Gad died on his feet.

  “I am something of an expert on this topic,” the necromancer had said. He’d watched her with an eerie gaze. Then he’d said, “Perhaps I’ll let the boy ride my mule.”

  Sarah had stopped and stared at him.

  “Naturally, I expect something in return,” the necromancer had said.

  “What?”

  “He would…” the necromancer had leered. “He would have to agree to join my circle, to become one of my acolytes.”

  “Meaning?”

  The necromancer had smiled, and that smile had petrified Sarah more than the slavers who would have raped her. “He would become a eunuch-acolyte and learn the deeper secrets of the world. First, however, he would have to agree of his own free will. Now is as good a time as any to ask. If you can coax him to agree, he may ride and live. Otherwise…”

  Sarah had held her back rigid, refusing to shudder in horror. The necromancer wanted to make Gad like him. Wordlessly, she’d begun marching again, dragging a muttering Gad with her.

  Now she realized that Gad wasn’t going to make it. As they stumbled along the trail through this swamp, she knew that now was the moment to escape. A half-sunken rock in the soil gave her the courage to try, because in a flash, she realized what she must do.

  “Can we stop a moment?” Sarah asked.

  The necromancer patted the mule’s neck. The beast halted, and what seemed like questioning squeaks emanated from the covered bamboo cage. The necromancer stared down at them with pitiless eyes.

  “I…” Sarah’s mouth was bone-dry. “I’ve been thinking about your offer.”

  “Yes?” the necromancer whispered.

  “What good is it if Gad dies?”

  “Ah, indeed.”

  “I… I think I can convince him to join you.”

  “Excellent,” the necromancer whispered. “He is ready to vow?”

  “He’s feverish at the moment.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The vow is the thing. The vow is binding.”

  “You’ll let him ride the mule then?” she asked.

  “As the newest addition to my circle, I will bathe him, give him medicine and let him ride all the way to Shiva.”

  “Yes, I’ll coax him,” Sarah said.

  The necromancer slid off his mule. “We’ll have to hurry. We don’t want to get too far behind the giant.”

  “It might take a few minutes. Do you have water so I can revive him?”

  “Yes, of course.” The necromancer unhooked a canteen, brought it near and dropped it in Sarah’s hands. Then he hurried to his mule and began to loosen knots, no doubt, so he could rearrange his bundles.

  “You must drink,” Sarah whispered, helping Gad sit up. She poured water into his mouth, but it just dribbled out the sides. “Gad,” she pleaded.

  He blinked so very slowly at her.

  “Drink.”

  He nodded, and this time he swallowed several painful sips.

  Sarah set aside the canteen and shuffled around so her body shielded her actions from the busy necromancer. She pried at the stone sunk in the moist soil.

  “Tell me when he’s ready to make his vow,” the necromancer said.

  “Give me just a few more minutes,” Sarah called.

  The necromancer giggled in an obscene manner and shifted a bundle on the mule.

  Sarah scraped dirt, pried at the rock again, but it was st
ubborn or maybe it was too big. She scraped away more dirt, cracking a fingernail in her haste. Then she levered the rock out of the ground. It was big, maybe too big for what she needed.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The necromancer had his back to her. He was retying a rope.

  Sarah heaved, lifted the stone to her shoulders and lurched toward the necromancer.

  The mule watched her, and it stamped a hoof. Maybe that alerted the necromancer. Maybe he had finished with his knot. He turned toward her.

  Sarah ran at him and heaved the rock with both hands.

  The necromancer had time for a short, horrified scream. Then the heavy rock crashed against his face. The rock thudded hollowly against him. His head crashed back against the mule. The beast brayed and trotted away. The necromancer slid to the damp trail as the rock thudded beside him.

  Sarah’s heart beat wildly. She stared at the moaning necromancer, wondering if she should lift the rock again and smash his skull. She decided she’d better. She reached down, tried to lift the rock and cried out softly at the pain in her back. She must have pulled a muscle. She knelt, and wrestled the repulsive bronze dagger from its scabbard. Moving fast now, wincing at her muscle-tear, she slung the water canteen over her shoulder, thrust the dagger through the belt and hauled a whimpering Gad to his feet.

  Without a backward glance, she hurried into the marsh, heading for the thickest reeds.

  ***

  Once she looked back and saw Manus’s head towering over the reeds. He hunted for her, she was certain of it. That horrified her, and Sarah shoved Gad down, hoping the giant hadn’t seen them. She had to keep hidden until dark. The slavers would surely leave by then, and she and Gad would have escaped for good.

  Sarah was so tired, and the torn muscle in her back ached from dragging Gad. Crouched over, she changed directions. Their feet sank into the mucky soil and mosquitoes whined all around them.

  Gad was hot, and his trembling had become worse. He wanted more water, had tried to lap from a scummy pond she’d circled. The bad water would certainly kill him. Gad needed clean water and rest, lots of rest.