The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6) Page 16

  Amalaric stiffened. The two were not yet betrothed. When she left veiled, then the betrothal would begin. For another man to touch his sister now… it was a deadly insult.

  Many warriors gasped.

  Jarn Shield-Breaker blinked stupidly, perhaps understanding the sound and understanding his gaff. His coarse face reddened. His hand dropped like a stone. He glanced at Amalaric.

  Amalaric felt his face tighten, and fear boiled in his belly. The insult to his family—he must challenge Jarn this moment or lose the respect of every warrior here. But if he challenged, Jarn would kill him. This was a terrible thing to have befallen him. Oh, why did the pig of a chieftain have to be so drunkenly stupid? For just a moment, Amalaric wondered if Jarn had outwitted him. Was this a planned insult?

  The Shield-Breaker shouted, “My brother-to-be! I am overwhelmed by your generosity. This is a greater gift than I deserve. To show you, to show all here that I understand, I will now give you a gift of surpassing greatness.”

  Drunken Jarn Shield-Breaker fumbled at the silver buckle to his sword belt. A taut silence filled the boughs under the Esus trees. Warriors watched, waiting in grim expectation. Jarn finally tore off his elk-skin belt and raised it and the fabled sword of Esus. With drunken deliberation, Jarn wrapped the elk-leather around the jeweled scabbard. He lurched toward Amalaric and shoved at him the fabled sword with its grim hilt.

  Amalaric stood as one pole-axed. His gaze was glued to the hilt. It showed a strange creature with spikes for teeth, with a black jewel for an eye. Legend held that Esus of the Forest had forged the sword for one of his animal-like sons. Once, Amalaric’s father had owed the sword. By claiming it at his father’s death, Jarn had gained the chieftainship. In drunken cunning perhaps, Jarn was giving him the sword to cover his terrible insult of touching Mari before they were betrothed. When Jarn became sober, however, he would be enraged with himself. Amalaric realized that Jarn might hate him forever because of this gift. The Shield-Breaker might plot his death so he could retrieve the fabled sword.

  Amalaric’s mouth was dry as he lusted for the godly blade. What was the right thing to do?

  “Take it,” Jarn growled. “It is my gift to you.”

  With shaking hands, Amalaric reached for the sword. A shock ran up his arms as he touched it. A hollow feeling grew in his stomach. Was Jarn unknowingly passing the chieftainship to him? This was an incredible blunder by the drunken fool.

  Warriors shouted in wonder.

  As Amalaric nodded, pulling the sword closer, Jarn frowned.

  “This is a mighty gift, Lord!” Amalaric shouted. He had a loud voice, a war-leader’s shout. “You honor me above all others!”

  A cheer rose.

  Jarn Shield-Breaker raised a thick arm, accepting the acclaim. He staggered back to his stool, plopping down. He scowled at the long-table and brooded. He opened his mouth, and glanced at Mari. Her veils were back in place.

  Jarn Shield-Breaker’s face darkened. His eyes were like coals. He shook his head as one of the shaggy hounds around his stool might have. Then he yanked a plate of river fish near. Angrily, he began to gobble the tender flesh. He grabbed his wooden cup and gulped beer as if trying to tame a fire in his belly.

  Warriors resumed drinking, and boasted to their neighbors about feats of arms and love-conquests. They also spoke about Mari’s beauty, and the kingly gift Jarn had given Amalaric.

  Lod watched as Amalaric led his veiled sister out of the crackling light of the fire-pits. Lod spoke to the Arkite mountain warrior beside him, his companion. Hul was too busy drinking and tearing meat with his teeth to reply. Lod noticed then that Amalaric had returned, and he spoke heatedly with a shaman with elk-antler headgear. Whispering fiercely, Amalaric showed the sword to the shaman. Finally, the shaman nodded and retreated from the long-tables and into the darkness.

  A span of time later, a strange and strangled cry went up. Warriors looked around. Jarn Shield-Breaker shoved trenchers and beer cups from him. The thick chieftain of the Dire Wolf Clan lurched to his feet. His face was red and getting redder. He opened his mouth like a fish gasping for air.

  “Jarn!” a warrior shouted.

  “Are you well?” asked another.

  Squat Jarn Shield-Breaker stood there, turning purple, his hands at his throat. His eyes bulged, and he made terrible throaty sounds.

  “He’s choking!” someone bellowed.

  Warriors rushed to him and began to pummel his broad back. Jarn Shield-Breaker staggered under their blows. The great shaggy hounds were up and barking wildly. Jarn crashed to knees. He clutched his throat. He stared at the shocked warriors around him. His eyes were pleading. Then the chieftain of the Dire Wolf Clan keeled over onto his side. His thick legs kicked spasmodically.

  Two nights before the baleful Blood Moon, Jarn died under the boughs of the Esus trees, choking to death on the bone of a river fish.

  -3-

  As dawn brightened the Zimri Forest for another day, it revealed a hundred huts and lean-tos in a great clearing. There were scattered leather tents and a multitude of passed-out, drunken warriors sprawled on the dirt. Some had wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Many were heaped like dead men. Countless warriors snored. Others wore vomit-stained furs.

  By Zimrian standards, the feast had been glorious. The warriors were gorged, blindingly drunk and useless for anything but heavy slumber.

  A few, however, a pitiful few, retained their senses. Those few were either old or very young. From the outskirts, they guarded the mighty encampment. A group of old women of Bones also stood guard. The ancient hags sat on stools before a wooden cage in the center of the huts, lean-tos, leather tents and cloak-wrapped, besotted and snoring drunkards. Mari gripped the wooden bars of her cage, peering out between two. She wore her long linen garment of Ir.

  Lod stood nearby. He was clear-headed and had eaten sparingly last night. Because he was a foreigner, his sword was in his hut. Zimrian custom demanded foreigners remain unarmed in the encampments, although knives were an exception to the rule.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Lod approached the old women. They were an unsavory lot, with bones twined in their gray hair, some thrust through their noses. They wore garments of mouse-skin and held leather rattles full of yet more small bones. He halted before one with strange tattoos on her wrinkled cheeks.

  Several other women lifted their rattles, shaking them.

  Lod glanced at Mari. The beautiful maiden stared into the forest, her expression unchanged. Lod noticed, however, her white-knuckled grip. And he had the sensation that she watched him out of the corner of her eye.

  “Is this the usual custom?” Lod asked.

  The old women shook their rattles even harder, until the oldest raised a gnarled hand. Immediately, the rattling ceased.

  “You must depart, stranger,” the oldest crone mumbled, revealing that she was toothless.

  “I am Lod.”

  “Go away!” she said, pointing with an arthritic finger that boasted an outsized joint and a cracked fingernail.

  “You know my name,” said Lod. “Thus, I am no longer a stranger.”

  The old woman of Bones lowered her hand and focused on him. She had beady eyes like poisonous lead pellets. “The maiden belong to Esus.”

  “I thought she was Jarn’s betrothed,” said Lod.

  “No. Our great chieftain is dead.”

  “Does that mean your god has frowned on the coming marriage?”

  “You dare to mock Esus?” the old woman asked.

  The others began to shake their rattles again, and now it had an ominous sound.

  Again, the old woman raised her gnarled hand, silencing the others. “Jarn died in a cowardly manner, which was an evil thing. Because of that, one dear to Jarn must grease his way to Esus.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Lod.

  “Meaning Jarn’s first wife died last summer,” the old crone said. “Jarn’s children remained in the deep forest.” She grinned, revealing blac
k gums. “Amalaric has agreed that the betrothal occurred. Therefore, Mari will pay Jarn’s way with blood, as a good and beautiful wife with such pretty skin should do.”

  “Meaning what?” asked Lod, with a grim hardening of his voice. He noticed that Mari glanced at him, but Lod kept his gaze on the old crone.

  The old woman cackled. “Meaning that the young beauty you lust for will hang from the Esus Tree tomorrow. Look at her. Have you ever seen such a face, such a lovely shape? The rope will circle that white throat and warriors will hoist her high into the tree. Her choking death will pave the way for brave Jarn Shield-Breaker.”

  Anger smoldered in Lod’s eyes. “You say her brother agrees to this?”

  “Amalaric bears the sword of Esus. He will be the new chieftain of the Dire Wolf Clan. Proof of his worthiness is that he agrees to see his sister hang for the good of the clan, for the good of the Zimri.”

  “And your god approves of such a barbaric death?” asked Lod.

  Mari gasped.

  Lod looked up at her.

  Mari shook her head. “I am doomed,” she said.

  “Silence!” the old crone mumbled. Drool spilled from the corner of her mouth. She struggled to her feet.

  Lod glanced over his shoulder at all the sprawled warriors lying on the dirt. Enough would awaken if horns blew. He couldn’t kill them all.

  Lod asked the old crone, “What if someone championed the maiden’s life?”

  The old woman shuffled to him. She stank, and there was madness in her beady eyes. She laid a withered old claw of a hand on his forearm.

  “He is a hero,” Mari said.

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied Lod. “I see,” she said. “Yes, yes, I see now.” Her grip tightened. “She is dead to you, my white-haired hero. Amalaric has agreed to see her swing from the Esus Tree. He must do so to save the tribe from Esus’s possible wrath. There is nothing anyone can champion.”

  “You must go,” Mari said, as she clutched the wooden bars of her cage.

  Lod looked at her. Mari met his gaze. There was sadness, and there was bitterness in her eyes. Then she cocked her head. Her lips parted. And something else entered her eyes.

  “Elohim—” Lod began to say.

  “I am my father’s daughter,” Mari said. “I am of Zimri, and now I belong to Esus.”

  “You are dead,” the old woman said.

  “I am dead,” Mari agreed, although she did not look down at the old woman of Bones. “So you must walk elsewhere… Lod.”

  The old women began to hiss at Lod.

  He hated the sound. He gazed at Mari. Her hands gripped the wooden bars so her fine knuckles stood up sharply in relief. He saw the fear in her eyes. He saw them moisten. Then she turned away, and her stare became distant.

  Unbidden, Lod’s lips moved silently, as he made a vow before Elohim. Then he left the cage and left the hissing old women of Bones. He left to make his plans.

  -4-

  The next day and with a heavy heart, Amalaric walked through the gloom of the forest. In the leafy branches above, magpies screeched and blue jays shrieked. Amalaric wore his finest Kishite cloak and held a rope. The end was tied around his sister’s throat. Behind them on the trail—presently out of sight—a large procession of warriors, elders, wise women and the clan shaman followed. The warriors bore the bier of Jarn Shield-Breaker, with the stiffened corpse lying upon it in a chieftain’s finery.

  Amalaric wondered if he should try to console his sister. Mari had begged that they walk well ahead of the others. This was her last hour of life—she had tried to say more. Tears had welled. He’d understood, and he had agreed to her small request. It had brought a sad smile to her face and that had helped dampen his guilt.

  It was so easy sometimes to mollify a desperate person. Any tiny concession became huge to them. Amalaric was glad Mari hadn’t berated him. He might have pointed out to the elders and wise women that Jarn had touched Mari before they were betrothed. By Jarn’s death afterward, Esus had possibly shown his displeasure. Thus, the betrothal was annulled. Yet if Amalaric spoke such words, some of Jarn’s closest friends would likely have demanded that he place the precious sword in Jarn’s burial chamber. The powerful friends would hate him for his words and ensure his defeat concerning the chieftainship.

  Therefore, Mari had to swing in the Esus Tree. It was the will of Esus, the will of the elders and the wise women. And tonight, the Blood Moon rose. He mustn’t forget that. He did this to protect the Zimri from Esus’s possible wrath.

  A blur of feathers caught Amalaric’s eye. A blue jay flapped through a ray of afternoon sunlight, higher into the tree.

  Amalaric squeezed the rope and refused to look back at Mari. He traded Mari’s life for the chieftainship. It was hard. But as much as he loved his sister, he lusted to become the chieftain more.

  “Brother,” Mari said softly.

  Amalaric’s breath caught in his throat. He almost kept walking. This was torture. He wished she would accept her death without any more requests. But it was important for her to meet death bravely. The others would note her courage, and they would believe it reflected well on him, on the family.

  So Amalaric halted, and he forced himself to face his sister.

  Mari wore her best garments of Ir linen, the white of a virgin. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back. Her pale features were clean. Her blue eyes seemed moist, but no tears streaked down her cheeks. She was beautiful. Their father had dearly loved Mari. Their father had loved her more than he had loved Amalaric. Father had always said she had the heart of bull elk that would charge anything in the forest. Father had always stared at him, Amalaric, as he’d spoken those words. He wondered if sometimes he hated his sister for that.

  “Brother,” Mari said, and she forced a sad smile.

  Amalaric nearly wilted under her eyes. He quailed at what she might say.

  “I go to the Esus Tree,” she said. “I go to grease the path for Jarn Shield-Breaker’s spirit. He was a valiant warrior, even if he smelled like hog shit.”

  “Mari,” he whispered. She mustn’t speak like that before the others.

  The tip of her tongue touched her lip. She held herself very straight. “Look,” she said, lifting her heavily bound wrists. “I’m tied like a beast for slaughter. I’m tied and roped as if I fear to meet my fate.”

  “Your courage shames me,” Amalaric whispered.

  Mari breathed deeply through her nostrils. “Untie me. Let me walk beside you to the Esus Tree. Let me show the others my courage.”

  “Mari…” Amalaric said. “That is against custom.”

  “I stood without flinching when the thag charged,” she said.

  “The thag tripped and broke its neck. It was a miracle. No miracle can save you now.”

  “I do not expect a miracle to save me,” she said. “I… wish to walk free and show everyone—”

  “Yes,” he said, sharply. “You want to show everyone your courage. Are you trying to shame me?”

  “…Can I shame the one who bears the sword of Esus?”

  Amalaric pursed his lips. He nodded slowly. “I spoke hastily. Show the others your great courage. Yes. Show them all.”

  And they will fear me even more.

  Amalaric drew his knife. He sawed through the rawhide thongs binding his sister’s wrists. Then he loosened the noose around her neck, lifted it over her golden-haired head and pitched the rope into a bush.

  “Walk beside me,” he said.

  Her chin quivered.

  Amalaric feared she might begin to cry. Would she run then? Would he have to chase her down? No warrior would follow a foolish chieftain. He should never have sawed through the ropes. He contemplated grabbing her.

  Her chin lifted, and she resumed the march to the sacred Esus Tree.

  -5-

  Lod followed Hul through the dense forest. Lod squeezed between heavy bushes, the twigs and leaves brushing against his oiled mesh-mail. He carefully ste
pped over rotten branches, brittle acorns or clusters of anciently dried leaves. Otherwise, Lod kept his gaze fixed on Hul’s back, trusting that his barbarian friend knew his way through this green labyrinth.

  Fierce emotions seethed through Lod. He yearned to strike, and he yearned to leave this nearly impenetrable maze. The walls of leaves before, behind and beside him, they choked his spirit. The gloom of Zimri, the close air with its rank forest stench—Lod wanted to charge and reach open land and see the sky again.

  Lod breathed through his mouth. He could taste the air on his tongue. It was as if he chewed on a leaf. It was so foreign. He had grown to manhood in the canals of Shamgar. He had sprinted beside chariots in the Pishon River Valley. He had walked in Uruk of Nod, the greatest city on Earth. Everywhere he’d been, except for the silver mines of Tartarus, he’d been able to see the sky. He was beginning to hate this dank forest.

  Lod drew his oiled short sword. It was a deadly weapon. Soon, he would plunge this into the flesh of those who thought to kill an innocent beauty. Remembering those blue eyes, Lod’s grip tightened.

  As Lod sheathed his sword, he marveled how Hul could negotiate this jungle-like growth of greenery.

  The large mountain warrior moved like a panther. Hul was a mass of leather, furs and rolling muscle. He had an iron helmet and carried a large axe. The axe was Hul’s prized possession. From what Hul had said these past weeks, Lod had learned that Arkite Land was filled with towering mountains, deep gorges and swift-flowing streams. The wild clans there lived far from civilized cities and far from the half-civilized borderlands. Most Arkites possessed flint axes, bone-tipped spears and granite-embedded clubs. According to Hul, an iron knife in Arkite Land was treasure indeed.

  Lod had learned that many years ago, Hul had fled the Orn People, his clan. Hul had become a sell-sword, a hireling and renowned as a scout. Penetrating the thick forests of the Zimrian tribes, a terrible and mysterious land to the civilized spearmen of Assur, had been a perfect mission for Hul. Finding the Esus Tree—Hul had refused to do it at first. Then Lod had offered Hul half of the gold Naram-Sin would give him for this mission.