Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) Page 14

  “No,” Tamar said, shaking her head. “He said to come alone, but…”

  “What?”

  “There was an accident,” she said.

  “What sort of accident?”

  Tamar moved away from them.

  “She’s trying to escape,” shouted the leader. “Surround her.”

  The others rushed her, ringing her with spears and swords.

  “What’s that on your back?” asked the leader, pointing at the stinkpot.

  “Zepho said to bring incense,” she said.

  “Why would Zepho be such a fool as to sneak a girl onto holy ground?” asked the leader.

  “Maybe he planned to throttle her,” suggested a spear-carrier. The man’s pale eyes gleamed and spittle flecked his lips. Perhaps that was his wish. He edged his spear-tip closer, almost touching Tamar with it. He aimed it at her throat and lowered the point, outlining her figure, until the tip halted, aimed at her thighs.

  “Or rape her,” said another, and he giggled.

  “No,” said the leader. “He would not have done those things while on duty—and certainly not Zepho.”

  “That’s right,” another priest snickered.

  The leader asked Tamar, “What happened to him? And no more lies, girl.”

  Tamar blinked herself out of her daze. These priests sickened her, their lewdness, their essence of evil. They closed in, and they stank of garlic. She avoided their eyes. Had she made a dreadful mistake?

  “Z-Zepho fell over the edge,” she said.

  “What? How?”

  She peered at her feet.

  “Speak, girl. Tell us how.”

  Tamar pretended to be too fearful to speak. It wasn’t hard. The pit of her stomach knotted painfully.

  The leader gestured. A spear prodded her back.

  “He slipped,” she said, cringing, so several of them chuckled.

  “You lie,” cried the leader. “You pushed him.”

  “No, no. He loved me, and I loved him.”

  “Zepho?” asked the gleaming-eyed spear-carrier in amazement.

  “Zepho despised women,” said another. “He had passed on to other loves.”

  “A lover of strange flesh,” said a leering priest.

  “That can’t be true!” cried Tamar. “Zepho said he would run away with me, that he would die without me.”

  “Did Zepho lead a double life?” asked a priest.

  The leader scowled. “You say Zepho fell off the edge?”

  “Over there.” Tamar pointed to the edge of the acropolis.

  “Watch her,” said the leader. He strode to the spot and peered over the lip. He hiked up his robe and squatted, cocking his head. After a time, he turned to Tamar. “Why don’t I hear rats squealing?”

  “Zepho said they wouldn’t be there,” said Tamar. “He told me he had learned to control them.”

  The leader’s eyes widened. Then they narrowed as his suspicion burned into her.

  “You don’t hear rats?” asked a priest.

  “No,” said the leader.

  “She must be telling the truth.”

  “Perhaps,” said the leader. He stood, picked up his sword and returned. “We’re taking her to Adoni-Zedek.”

  “Is that wise?” asked a priest. He sounded frightened.

  The leader hesitated, his dark eyes hard upon Tamar. “Something strange occurs here. Better to tell Adoni-Zedek now, than on the rack. Better to let his wisdom guide us. He is nearer Gog than we. And this rat control…. We must seek Adoni-Zedek.”

  Priests nodded, causing pendants to jiggle against their breastplates. A trident image was stamped in the center of each medal. Each priest was by this symbol an initiate of the Order of Gog.

  “It might be foolish to bother Adoni-Zedek this time of night,” said a priest.

  “But the rats,” said the leader, “I didn’t hear them squeal.”

  “Perhaps there is a… a natural explanation.”

  Other priests now began to argue, to postulate.

  “We know the reason. Zepho controlled the rats.”

  “We don’t know. You can’t trust her.”

  “But—”

  “No more!” cried the leader. “Take her to Adoni-Zedek. Let him of Flay Rank test the truth of her words.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Raid Chieftain

  “Strike suddenly, furiously and never in the same place twice.”

  -- A saying of Shurite Raiders

  Far, far away from the Temple of Shamgar and the sound of the priest’s shout, lay the shadowy realm of Sheol, the Land of the Dead. Beneath the worst torments of Sheol, where dwelt those who were evil in life, was a deeper prison. It was a place of perpetual gloom and despair, a place of groaning and horrible regret. There, in Tartarus, lay the bene elohim who had once rampaged across the green Earth in guises of flesh. They had not keep their positions of authority, but abandoned their own home, and they had given themselves over to sexual immorality and perversion by daring to unite celestial with terrestrial, an unholy commingling forbidden by divine law. They had tormented humanity with their abominations, and had claimed and accepted divine honors of worship. Each lay alone, chained with adamant, bound for a grim day of accounting to him whom sat upon the throne of the Celestial Realm.

  One among them lay in the deepest dungeon, a colossus in stature, once acclaimed a prince among the stars. He had walked upon the mountain of Elohim and spoken with archangels. If light could have shined upon him, any who saw his form would have called him lovely—except that hatred twisted his countenance. His eyes, like costly jewels, would have blazed with unfulfilled lusts, cheated retributions and devious plots left to wither.

  He was Magog, once called the craftiest of the Accursed. He had joined the bene elohim who had dared to don flesh and bone. His oratory had obliterated angelic objections. His courage had fired the wilting. Those heady days of glory tormented him now. He relived each hour, each moment and considered how he could have done better. How he longed for oblivion or for some way to escape his prison.

  He shifted his gargantuan bulk, and his adamant chains clinked with doom. His cedar-sized legs made the fiery liquid he reclined in slosh with odd sound. He covered his eyes with an arm that had once swept aside a thousand soldiers of Larak in a single battle. How the mighty had fallen. It grated on him as monumental injustice.

  He clenched his colossal fists, and he strove once more for his last spell. Long, long ago, in the land of the living, when he had worn flesh and lain with gorgeous women—Magog groaned with desire.

  He recalled the hot kisses of passion, the wild nights of rutting and the silkiness of a harlot’s hair. Yet, it was a woman’s eyes and her beguiling smile—there had been magic in it, an enflaming power. He had taken any woman he desired, slain a thousand husbands, butchered hordes of avenging brothers and fathers. His harem had been the envy of his brethren. All he had wanted, he’d taken.

  Magog shook his mammoth head. With an effort of panting will, he forced the lusts from him. It was one of the properties of Tartarus to heighten the frustration of cheated wants. Here in this grim place, good had forever departed.

  Magog longed for power, seduction, revenge and glory. He yearned for all that he had lost. In the depths of his being, he also ached for a sight of color, to hear the wind, the sound of the sea—

  He clenched his teeth, and his fists shook. He must concentrate. He had one spell remaining, one trick left. He had pondered in his days of earthly godhood the possibility of defeat. Such thoughts had galled him. But he was Magog, and he knew that he had to endure the wrath of him who sat on the highest throne. He had delved deeply, and experimented with devices. It had been a whim then.

  Now in Tartarus, in this wretched gloom, a titan lain low in bitter defeat—

  The sound of gnashing teeth was perhaps the worst sound of all. It lasted far too long. Magog strove with himself to regain the fierceness of will that had once been his in abundance. He had a
single spell. If he could achieve it, trap a man, the more powerful the better, the more knowledgeable the more certain of victory.

  Once, in life, Magog had strengthened his connection with this secret device. He had fashioned linking icons, and powered the device with a thousand bloodstained souls. As he lay in torment, in darkest gloom, he sought to achieve once more. Any sight, any sound, would relieve him for just an intoxicating moment. But if he could hurt, commit a determined act—or dare he hope—if he could inhabit a human…

  Magog twisted in agony, striving, plotting. He needed to concentrate, and he needed luck. He bent his fierce will, for he sensed in his being this might be his last chance—in a place where all chances had long ago ended. He strove, and the incredible happened, the impossible. His will, or a trickle of it, broke free of his imprisoned spirit and shot upward. Like a bat in the night, it winged from Tartarus, drawn upward to his device, and one near it who spoke his name in adoration. After a desperate and agonizing flight, his portion of will entered ghostly Sheol, and passed the evil ones there. Then, in time, it flittered through the higher realm of the good dead, those who awaited prophesied mercy. Magog likely would have failed then, but long had he’d attuned himself to the marvelous device. He concentrated, and knew that now was the moment. He might never summon such strength again. He strove, and a trickle of his will burst out of Sheol. It sped toward the land of the living, to Earth and the Temple in rebuilt Shamgar.

  Magog the Accursed stiffened in his prison in Tartarus. In the darkness, his great eyes opened wide. The great Temple—

  He groaned, but it was a sound that none had ever heard in Tartarus. It held hope, a grim, devious and malicious hope, but hope just the same.

  Now… now he might gain revenge. It might be a small revenge when weighed against all his torments, but perhaps if his luck held, he could strengthen this last link and bring infernal justice onto the Earth and against its hated denizens.

  ***

  “Hurry,” hissed Keros. “Faster.”

  Bessus clambered down the knotted rope. It was tied around an upper arch. The beastmaster slithered into the terrible dark of the Temple.

  Keros seethed with impotent rage. Priests had captured Tamar! He wanted to let go and drop. The slow descent infuriated him.

  “They know we’re coming,” whispered Bessus.

  “What?”

  “She’ll tell them everything.”

  “Not yet she hasn’t,” Keros snarled.

  “We must retreat. We must climb back up and flee the acropolis.”

  “Keep going down,” hissed Keros.

  The rope shook as Bessus continued down. Keros followed, wanting to step on the beastmaster’s head and make him hurry.

  The inner Temple blackness swallowed them, and seemed to contain more than just light subtraction. The dark was swollen, like a mist with clammy fingers. Strange odors wafted around them, scents of evil. There was an aura of wickedness, doom and the desertion of anything decent. There was a feeling, a presence… no, more like a company of beings. They were vile and malignant, spirits, entities of darkness.

  It began to dawn on Keros where he was, and that leeched his fury.

  “I’ll pray to Magog for aid,” whispered Bessus.

  “No.” Keros’s heart beat faster. He had the sensation of descending into a pit of vipers, scorpions and slithering centipedes. His skin crawled.

  Bessus stopped. The rope no longer shook.

  Keros’s mouth was dry. He had to moisten it before he whispered, “What is it?”

  “I-I can’t go on.”

  Keros peered into the darkness. It seemed as if a black pit yawned below him. It sucked the warmth from his body and stole his courage. He began to shake.

  “Magog,” whispered Bessus.

  “Quiet,” said Keros.

  “I hear him,” Bessus moaned. “Oh, I hear him. He calls to me. Magog, I-I abase myself to thee. Come to thy servant. Enter me with thy greatness. Magog, god of cruelty, god of—”

  Keros trembled. It made it hard to keep his grip on the rope. He felt swirling presences of evil. He felt their mocking, their leer.

  “Elohim,” he whispered.

  Bessus abruptly quit his chant, his prayer. Anger tinged his voice. “Speak not that name here.”

  Keros frowned. His tongue seemed to twist, his mouth turn numb. The trembling had stopped, although his fingers, his hands, were now slick with sweat.

  Before he could sort out this phenomenon, a dreadful noise sounded. A heavy stone or boulder rolled. It was a distant sound, as if coming from the depths of the Earth. It rumbled, groaned and then, it was still. In its place, came an elephantine tread. Someone mighty climbed stairs.

  “Gog,” whispered Bessus.

  The numbness spread through Keros. Their quest was over, done, they were finished. Lod would rot in the dungeon. Gog would gather his armies and conquer the lands around the Suttung Sea. Gog came. He would find them dangling on the rope. Flies caught in a spider’s web, fleshy fruit to be plucked by the monster ascending the stairs. Gog came from his lair. He came to practice his arts, the First Born, he born of an Old One, a child of one of the fallen sons of Elohim. Gog, the son of Magog, the ruler of Shamgar, the Oracle, the one who had lived more than two thousand years, he came, he climbed his stairs.

  “Mercy,” wailed a man in the distance.

  The faraway clink of chains was the only answer.

  Keros’s slick fingers tightened around the rope, around its coarse fibers. Gog came to sacrifice. He came here, to the inner sanctum. Keros’s mind swirled and threatened to blank out. And then, like a distant spark, a far-off speck on the horizon, a first ray that breaks the grip of night, Keros saw in his mind’s eye, a man burdened with a golden yoke. The white-haired man, with his blood-speckled beard, limped and dragged his feet. On his body, he bore cuts, bruises and burns. His fierce eyes glowed with fanaticism. A frozen smile bared his teeth in a wolfish snarl. Madman, prophet, champion of Elohim… in Keros’s memory Lod came again over the Goat Bridge. He came toward a cripple, a wretch, a child of the Tribes of Shur.

  The image unlocked Keros’s fear. “Elohim,” he whispered.

  The tread of doom still came. The clink of chains still made his blood chill. But—

  “Listen to me, Bessus. Now is the moment. We must climb down.”

  “I-I can’t move.”

  “Then, you will never see your beasts, Bessus. You will never march down the corridors in glory. Do you hear me?”

  “…Yes.”

  “Well?”

  Keros felt the rope quiver, and he heard Bessus’s garments rustle, as if the beastmaster searched through his pockets. “Ah-ha,” said Bessus. “Magog, aid me, or I die. This time, you must heed my cry. Enter in, and give me aid.”

  Keros hissed in alarm.

  “Ahhh,” moaned Bessus. The rope quivered and shook as the beastmaster now began to slither down.

  Keros didn’t know what had just happened. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He followed, and he kept his thoughts on Elohim. He is my strength and my deliverer. In Him will I trust.

  “I’m down,” said Bessus.

  Keros hand-over-handed several more times and then, his boots struck the stone floor. It took a moment. He flexed his hands, shook out his weary arms. He said, “Take my hand. We mustn’t get lost in the dark.”

  They moved together along the wall and toward the heavy tread. The marble was cool to the touch, very smooth. Before they had taken twenty steps, a different tramp of feet warned them.

  “Wait,” whispered Keros.

  Muted metal clinked. Wood thumped and then, came the groan of hinges. Slowly, and then in a blaze, light poured into the vast room as huge doors ponderously swung open.

  Keros stared around him in fear and wonderment. Bessus moaned much too loudly. Keros shot an elbow into Bessus’s side to quiet the beastmaster.

  On the far side of the sanctum, the giant doors creaked open. At least th
eir distance from them was a blessing. The doors were thirty feet tall and almost as wide. Thirteen torch-bearing priests filed through. Instead of black tattoos, red tattoos glistened on their foreheads, and their eyes seemed shiny and transfixed. They marched mechanically, like puppets. None of those things, however, caused Bessus to moan or Keros to shrink against the wall.

  In the titanic room, with its domed ceiling hundreds of feet high, stood hideous idols. The farthest seemed to be of granite and stood a hundred feet high. The idol was of a squat, powerful-shouldered being. He bore an iron maul and a vest of armor. A wide, dominating face, and with a commanding gaze, peered heavenward in defiance. It was Moloch the Hammer, the most indomitable of the Old Ones, the sire of the First Born, Tarag of the Sabertooths. Other idols fashioned of bronze, iron and marble, of other dreaded Old Ones, like Dagon, Azel the Accursed, Draugr Trolock-Maker, Anak and more, rose like colossi to threaten and plague the Earth. Amidst them, stood a black altar, a small slab compared to their stature. Bones littered the gore-stained obsidian. The altar seemed to beat, to throb with evil.

  As Keros watched, and as Bessus slumped against the wall, the thirteen, torch-bearing priests filed past the colossi, until they circled the altar. They began to chant, to lift their torches and wave them in a hellish rhythm, causing the flames to blaze and crackle madly.

  It must have been Keros’s imagination, for it seemed as if the idols shifted their rock heads and blinked with satisfaction. Even so, Keros dared move. Taking Bessus by the scruff of his mammoth-fur jacket, Keros eased them behind the nearest idol, hiding behind gigantic bronze calf-muscles.

  “No sound now,” Keros whispered.

  A vast trap door rose from the floor. It was a twenty-foot slab of marble, hinged at one end. It swung back and hit the floor with a boom. Out of it slithered an oily, evil shadow. It billowed. It rolled. It clouded like dense smoke. The stench was vile, a mixture of odors sulfurous, carrion and burned-out, gutted homes. It roiled, boiled and filled the vast room. Keros felt as if he were sinking into evil, into a dark that he would never escape. He threw an arm over his eyes. He pressed his nostrils. Bessus croaked and gagged. Through slit eyelids, Keros watched the torches grow dim. The radius of their light weakened. Soon, the priests seemed like a tiny oasis of light in a surging sea of blackness.